


you go to my head

by alby_mangroves, brideofquiet



Series: the summer of a thousand julys [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1930s, Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sex Worker Steve Rogers, Sexual Experimentation, Top Bucky Barnes, Vaginal Sex, lots of thinking wistfully about blow jobs, steve and bucky the 21-year-old dumbasses extravaganza, this fic is very horny you're welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: “Why would you do that for a man you don’t know?” Bucky asks.Steve raises one slow eyebrow at him, then the other, till his expression turns from skepticism to disbelief. His forefinger and thumb reach into his shirt’s front pocket and draw out a wrinkled dollar bill.Steve looks him in the eye when he says, very patiently, “For money, Bucky.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **brideofquiet:** It's been SUCH a joy working with alby on this story—we were on the same wavelength from the first beat. Thank you, alby, for the beautiful art that immediately captured my eye, all your wonderful encouragement and ideas, and all the new art to go along with the story! Also big thank you to [newsbypostcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard), my faithful beta, for always making sure my sentences aren't TOO weird.
> 
>  **alby_mangroves:** Thank you to brideofquiet for picking this prompt and writing the fic of my heart for it! I couldn't have wished for a better collab experience and I'm just over here on the floor breathing into a paper bag at this GOOD you have made! ♥ ♥ ♥ x alby

 

 

 

Brooklyn bypassed spring this year and leapt both feet first straight out of winter into the agony of summer in the city. The sun is murderous, like it’s intent on making up for lost time, bottling so much heat into each day that the glass is bound to burst at some point. Something’s going to catch on fire, Bucky's sure, before the season ends.

Bucky wishes it would be him. Then he wouldn’t have to shuffle his feet across hot pavement every day. Instead he’d just burn up and not have to deal with it anymore. He swears the soles of his shoes have melted a little. Not even the birds bother chirping in temperatures like this. It’s miserable, is what it is.

Times like these make Bucky wonder what it’d be like to live somewhere else. Packing the whole family up, tossing Steve in for good measure, and carting them off to Alaska doesn’t seem so bad an idea.

Bucky wipes fingers over the back of his neck, and they come away damp and awful. At least he’s leaving work. There’s probably no ice in the box at home but if there is, he’s sticking three whole pieces right down his shirt as soon as he sets foot through the door.

He misses spring; he likes spring. Spring is sweet and tender, the world waking itself up from wintry slumber one slow day at a time. Bucky has always been too much of a romantic for his own good, but he likes that idea: _love is in the air._ All that’s in the air these days is the smell of hot garbage and too many flies. Not even the breeze blowing up the street offers any relief.

It’s worse in the train station—underground. A bunch of overcooked sardines about to pack themselves into a poorly ventilated can of a car. He’d almost rather walk, but at least this is faster. He hops off a stop early, both because he’s tired of the ride and because Steve lives nearby.

Bucky drops by as often as he can, which is most afternoons. Steve’s place is practically on his way home anyway. It’s only been recently that Steve has lived close enough for him to be able to, and Bucky’s taking full advantage of their re-established proximity before it’s gone again. Steve has moved around a lot the past two years. Not every place has been so close by. Bucky misses when they were kids, when Steve and his ma lived just a few blocks over. They went to the same school, saw each other every day, spent almost every afternoon lolloping around the neighborhood together.

When Steve’s ma died, it hit Steve hard. He lost their apartment in short order, since his name wasn’t on the lease and the landlord was a real asshole who assumed Steve couldn’t afford it. The guy was probably correct, but it still wasn’t right to put someone who’s grieving out on the street like that. Bucky and his family didn’t have a whole lot of room to spare, but they offered it up anyway. It wasn’t like the Barneses were unused to having Steve around; he was as good as family.

Steve had stayed with them for all of two weeks before he fled to go live halfway across the borough. Bucky had thought he had finally gotten through to him about taking help when he needed it, but Steve’s skull was thicker than the earth’s crust sometimes. He’d practically moved to Queens. The thought of him out there by himself like that while he was still muddling his way through losing his mother ate Bucky up inside, but it wasn’t like he could have chained him to the Barneses’ kitchen table. If Steve wanted to leave, he left. That was that. Bucky had an easier time accepting that some days than others.

They didn’t see each other much in those days. Bucky tried, but the trains are slow and he was still in his apprenticeship, so his work hours were practically illegal. He didn’t have much spare time. When he did, Steve usually claimed to be busy with one thing or another. Wound licking, probably. He always said he had a job but damned if Bucky could ever remember what it was; Steve tended to go through them like paper tissues.

It’s better now, though. Steve is better. Through the worst of it anyway, though Bucky isn’t sure if you ever really get over a thing like that. Steve doesn’t talk about it, and Bucky doesn’t bring it up. There’s a lot of things neither one of them brings up. Life between them is easier for it most of the time, Bucky thinks. He’s never once stopped calling Steve his very best friend—never even paused to consider if it was still true. He’d bet every last penny he has that Steve thinks the same way. Some things stay the same, no matter what.

Steve’s new building—well, it’s old, but Steve has only lived there for a few months, so it’s new to the two of them. The place is about six stories high, but Steve only lives on the second floor. Bucky passes a harried-looking man coming down the steps as he hurries into the blessed shade of the indoors.

“Afternoon,” he says, already in a brighter mood.

The man barely touches his hat in greeting before darting off down the street. Bucky shrugs and heads inside.

The stairs squeak underfoot and the banister’s too loose for his liking, but all in all this isn’t the worst building Steve has stayed in. He lives in the back corner. When Bucky reaches his door, he gives a cursory knock before sliding his key into the lock and stepping through.

“Steve?” he calls out. “Honey, I’m home!”

Steve appears from behind the curtain that separates his bedroom from the rest of the room. He’s scowling, as per usual, one hand pressed to the makeshift door jamb.

“You know that key is only for emergencies,” he says flatly.

“It is an emergency,” Bucky says, and hops up to sit on the one clear spot on Steve’s kitchen counter. “You coulda been dead in here from heat stroke—had to check.”

“Well, I’m alive.”

Bucky looks him over, just to be certain. His hair’s all askew and his face is flush, a red line down his cheek like he’d just scraped himself off the pillows. His clothes look rumpled, though Steve isn’t much for ironing, so that’s never a surprise.

“Were you asleep?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, sorry. Any good dreams?”

“Had this one where you got your sweaty behind off my counter. It was pretty good.”

Bucky grins at him wide enough to hurt. “That’s clever, Rogers.”

“Aren’t I always? Now get off there, I mean it, and I’ll get us both a glass of water.”

“Thank God, he’s hospitable.”

Bucky’s shoes hit the wood floor with a _thump_ and a _creak._ There aren’t that many places for him to go to get out of the way. Steve’s place is only the one room, really—there’s a makeshift wall that partitions off where he sleeps, but it’s not much in the way of privacy. Though, Bucky supposes, Steve does live alone, so it’s not like it matters. Steve only bothers putting two chairs at the table for Bucky’s sake.

It’s a cigar box, but it’s Steve’s—that much is clear. He’ll settle damn near anywhere, and do it easily. In the few months he’s lived here, Bucky has watched him slowly transform this room into a home. The walls are covered in newspaper and magazine clippings, half of it inspiration and the other half background information for Steve’s political diatribes. Sometimes Bucky reads the kitchen wall to prepare himself for conversation. The table is cluttered with books and art supplies—a sheaf of paper, a tin of charcoals, that set of oil pastels Bucky had splurged on for Steve’s birthday last year. When Steve brings him cool water in a green glass mug, Bucky clutches it carefully in both hands, because this set was Steve’s mother’s. Besides the blanket he uses as a curtain, that dining set is about the only thing he has left of her.

Bucky takes a long sip of water. The sweat on his neck is finally starting to dry.

“So,” he says, “good day?”

Steve’s mouth twists. He’s not laughing at Bucky, but that’s the impression he’s going for. _You’re a dolt,_ without saying it. “Sure, Buck. How about you?”

“Passable.”

“Still hate your boss?”

“More and more every day.”

“I don’t see why you don’t just quit.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, and scoots his glass back and forth across the table, making quiet scuffing sounds. “Not everybody has that luxury, Steve.”

Steve’s smile droops, turning bitter. “You calling unemployment a luxury?”

“No, Christ, you know I don’t—” Bucky yanks in a breath, then sighs. “That’s not what I meant. Sorry.”

“I know.” Steve reaches for the books on the table, straightens them out a little. His long fingers drag over the spines. “Didn’t mean it like that either, I guess.”

“Any of those books any good?”

“This one.” Steve pushes a volume toward him. _Their Eyes Were Watching God._

“Got aliens in it?”

Steve snorts, then really laughs, and kicks Bucky’s shin under the table.

“Ow! Hey!”

“What’s with you and aliens?” Steve asks, while Bucky’s bent halfway to the floor to rub at his shin. It didn’t really hurt; Steve’s feet are bare.

“What’s with you and” —Bucky grabs the book, flips it over to scan the back cover— “uh, a woman in Florida?”

“It’s good. Great even. Take it, read it.”

“Maybe I will.” Bucky sets the book back down on the table, but only because he doesn’t have pockets that big. He trusts Steve’s opinion, even if their tastes aren’t always the same. “So were you off work today?”

“Huh?”

“Why were you napping in the middle of the day?”

“It’s past five o’clock, Bucky.”

“Well, sure, but you look like you were down for a while. You feeling alright?”

“I’m feeling fine.”

“Then why weren’t you at work?”

“Who says I wasn’t at—” Steve cuts off, his hand pressed flat to the table. “What’s it matter anyway?”

“Aw, Steve. Come on, not again, huh?”

Steve’s eyes—bluest blue—find his. “Sorry.”

The table slips forward a quarter inch when Bucky lays his elbows too heavily on it, leaning closer to Steve. “You don’t have to apologize, pal. _I’m_ sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Well, no, but still. I wish this didn’t keep happening to you. What was it this time, calling out sick?”

Steve shrugs, sitting back in his seat. “Doesn’t matter either way, does it? I’m over it. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Do you need money?”

The withering look hits Bucky squarely between the eyes. Steve is right; it’s not like Bucky has a whole lot to be giving away, so he raises his hands to show he’ll back off.

“Anyway,” Steve says, “like I told you, I’m fine. I’ve still got money from some commissions and—and I got a new gig lined up already, so. There.”

“Really? Where?”

“Drugstore counter.”

“That’s great, Steve. I’m proud of you.”

Steve’s eyes tighten at the corners. It might be the compliment—he’s always been bad to just brush them off—but Bucky wonders if it’s something else. He doesn’t press, though. It’s too damn hot to argue, even inside. Steve will tell him in time; he always does.

“What are you doing for dinner?” Bucky asks. “You could come to mine, if you want.”

Steve’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again. He shakes his head. “Can’t. I got some errands to run.”

“You want some company? I can—”

“Weren’t you just saying about dinner? Don’t you need to get home?”

“Ma can keep a plate hot for me, she’ll understand. Seriously, I don’t mind to come—I’d like to. Where are you going?”

“I gotta—it’s boring stuff, Bucky.” Steve waves his hand in air, dismissive. “I’m probably going to cap it off at the art supply store, so…”

“Oh, right.”

Bucky has learned not to follow Steve into the art supply store. There’s simply no use trying to get his attention surrounded by all those colored pencils. He rarely buys anything—all the nice quality stuff, which is all he’ll use because he’s a snob, is expensive as hell. But he likes browsing, and has been known to get lost in the aisles for a couple hours some afternoons.

“Well,” Steve says as he stands from the table, “thanks for the visit.”

“Are you running me out?”

Steve has already pushed the curtain to his room aside, catching it on a long nail in the wall. “Would that I could,” he mumbles, loud enough that Bucky knows he’s meant to hear.

“Oh, you don’t mean that.” Bucky stretches out in his chair, intending to stay till Steve does throw him out. He reaches for Steve’s half-full water glass and takes a sip.

Steve just casts a dirty look over his shoulder before his face disappears inside the fabric of his shirt. He pulls it off, and his undershirt too, baring the skin of his back to Bucky. His shoulders are pale pink—sunburned. He’ll have more freckles in a few weeks. A line of sweat along his spine catches the sunlight pouring in through the only window in the place.

Bucky takes another gulp of water, and drops his eyes to the table. His mother would say that it’s rude to stare.

“You change your mind?” Steve asks. When Bucky glances up, Steve is standing in the doorway, buttoning a fresh shirt up. No undershirt this time, Bucky notices. “Buck?”

“Huh?”

“I said, are you coming with me?”

“Oh, no.”

Steve’s posture relaxes a little. “Okay. Good, you get whiny when you’re bored.”

“You can stop by for dinner when you’re done,” Bucky offers. “We’ll save a plate. I know the girls would love to see you.”

Steve’s mouth purses, like he’s thinking. It makes his lips look bigger than usual. “I don’t know. I’ll probably be gone a while.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re welcome whenever, you know that.”

Steve smiles at him, the indulgent smile an adult gives a kid who’s being cute. “Thanks, Buck. I’ll just eat here tonight. Maybe later in the week?”

“‘Course. Any special requests?”

“Mm. Your ma still make those potato things?”

Bucky knows exactly what he means. “I’ll see what we can do.”

They leave together. Before they part, Bucky yanks Steve into a hug—just a quick one, because it’s still hot. Steve laughs at him, then turns to head toward the waterfront, while Bucky walks in the opposite direction deeper into the neighborhood.

 

 

A wall of sound hits Bucky the moment he opens the door.

“Jesus,” he mumbles. “Why is everybody yelling?”

“Bucky? Is that you?” His mother pokes her head through the kitchen doorway. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.”

Her eyes draw up and down, mouth pinched at the sight of him. He knows he’s a mess, after a long day at work. “You’ll want to go wash up before dinner,” she says. It’s not a question.

“I know—let me say hello to everyone first.”

“Well, hello.”

“Hi to you too, Ma.”

He meanders down the hall into the front parlor, where the rest of the family is gathered. His father is hunkered down by the radio, trying his best to listen to the news program. He has it turned up so loud it’s a wonder his eardrums don’t burst. Bucky waves at him across the room, just to do it; his father glances at him, expression unchanging, then turns to fiddle with the dials.

The girls, on the other hand, are all happy to see him. Becca and Janet drop whatever argument they’d been having and straighten on the couch, but it’s Rosie who makes it to him first.

“Bucky!” she yells, and in moments her doll is sandwiched between them, digging into his ribcage while Rose hugs him for all he’s worth.

“Oof,” Bucky breathes on impact. He pats her hair, gently pushing on her scalp in an effort to get her to ease up. “Hey, Rosie girl.”

“You always smell bad when you get home.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“He smells bad, period,” Janet says.

“Oh, Jan,” Becca says, grabbing her arm. “That’s mean.”

Their father turns the radio up louder.

“I’ll go work on that if you let go a’me, Rosemarie,” Bucky says.

“Fine,” she groans, but seems content to plop back down to the floor with her doll.

“Anyways,” Bucky says, “hi everybody.”

They all chorus hellos with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Smiling, Bucky turns on his heel to head for the washroom. The sounds of his family are blessedly muted by the closed door. He knows he shouldn’t complain; a second-story brownstone apartment means they have more space than most families in Brooklyn. His father’s been in and out of jobs the last few years, but they always scrape enough together to stay here. They’ve never moved, not since they came here from Indiana when Bucky was four and Becca wasn’t born yet. He knows that’s a luxury, times being what they are.

It’s just that there’s six of them, and not a one of them ever learned how to moderate their voice.

He splashes cold water from the tap on his face, still red-cheeked from the walk home. The water runs down his neck and onto the open collar of his shirt. His ma will probably want him to change anyway, so he cups his hands and buries his nose in the water before dumping it over his head. It feels damn good.

Bucky likes living with his family—he does. He likes his sisters, and how he’s right here whenever they need him, for homework help or whatever else. His ma cooks what’s got to be the best food in the neighborhood, if not all of Brooklyn. They need the money he makes, but he doesn’t mind giving it to them. He’s comfortable here; it’s familiar. He’d miss them if he left.

That’s not to say it comes without drawbacks, though. He might have his own room, but the door’s a glorified plank and the room itself barely fits a single-wide bed. He has no real space to himself—which means no real privacy. That was fine when he was a kid and never wanted any anyway, but he’s a young man now.

He envies Steve his tiny flat some days. More than that, he likes the thought of all that independence, even if Steve came to it by difficult means. Steve can come and go as he pleases; he doesn’t answer to anyone. He can have any old guest over any time and not worry about the kinds of noises they’re making.

Sometimes Bucky wants that—wants it _bad._ Girls don’t take it too kindly when you say to them _well, we could go to mine, if you don’t mind my mother overhearing._

Plenty of other men his age still live with their families, so surely there’s some solution to be had. Unless they’re all walking around same as him, perpetually unsatisfied. Maybe Steve would let him borrow his place sometime, if he asked real nicely. Bucky can’t imagine how that conversation would go. It’s probably too rude to even ask.

A pipedream: to be able to get himself off without fear that one of his sisters will barge in unannounced while his hand is in his underpants.

The water’s still running, over his hands and into the sink basin. Bucky cuts it off and looks at himself in the mirror. He turns his jaw side to side, eyeing himself up. He’s handsome, he thinks. Better than most. It’s vain to believe it but it’s true. Plenty of girls would go with him, if he had someplace to take them.

He knows what his mother will say if he brought it up, though. _There’s no reason for you to leave till you’re married. Unless you have something you’d like to tell me?_

And Bucky resolutely does not. He likes girls—but he’s not quite ready to marry one, just yet.

“Dinner’s ready!’ his mother calls up the hall.

He heads for his room to change into a clean shirt. Is Steve thinking about marriage? Bucky supposes they’re getting to be about that age now, but it would still surprise him if Steve had put much thought to it. He's awkward around girls.

Maybe in the meantime, the two of them could get a place together. That could be nice; they would make good roommates. Steve would probably understand what a locked door means without Bucky very painfully explaining it.

But all that’s a pipe dream, too. His family needs him too much for him to ever leave—the girls especially. Maybe he’ll bring it up with Steve anyway, just to see if he has any insight. For now, though, he better make it to the dinner table before his ma yells for him again.

 

 

The problem is, Steve is getting more and more elusive on him. It’s hard to catch him for more than few minutes at a time; he’s always running off someplace these days. Errands or a shift at the drugstore, or both.

“What’s gotten into you?” Bucky asks him one evening. “Can’t you sit still?”

Steve sticks a hat on his head with a shrug. “Dunno. Guess not.”

He’s out the door in another breath, telling Bucky to be sure to lock up when he heads out. Bucky likes that Steve doesn’t mind him lingering—it’s nice to have the quiet escape sometimes—but he’d prefer to visit with Steve. He never seems to want company, though. A few times Bucky goes with him, just to see where the hell he’s running around, but it’s disappointingly boring. A couple meetings trying to get art jobs, a trip to the grocery store. Bucky wonders aloud if Steve will show him which drugstore he works at, but Steve says he doesn’t want to have to go to his place of work unless he’s getting paid to be there. That’s a good argument, so Bucky drops it.

Eventually Bucky starts to wonder if Steve is pulling the wool over his eyes for some reason. Like that moment at his place—it doesn’t feel like Steve is lying to him, but maybe he’s not telling the whole truth.

It’s a shameful thing to think. He and Steve are honest with each other. Steve tells him when he’s used too much pomade in his hair and Bucky tells Steve when he’s about to get his lights knocked out. Whether or not either of them does anything about what the other has to say is another matter—but they tell each other the truth, to each other’s faces.

There’s no real reason to believe that’s changed. Steve still tells him how and why he got every bruise or cut on his face. _They were being real assholes to him, Buck, you know I couldn’t just keep walking_. Hell, maybe Steve joined a boxing club like Bucky’s been begging him to for years. That would explain why he’s so physically exhausted all the time.

So it’s probably nothing. Bucky’s just gotten his feelings hurt, wondering if for the first time Steve has more parts to his life that don’t involve Bucky than do.

Next time Bucky visits, he knocks like he’s supposed to, and Steve lets him in with a warm smile. He’s in a good mood today, and says he doesn’t need to go anywhere. They should go get dinner together, he suggests, some place with big hamburgers and french fried potatoes. Bucky is happy to see him, of course, but a strange little tangle of jealousy is still caught in his gut.

“Do you have a girl or something?” Bucky asks over their hamburgers.

Steve pauses in the middle of squirting more ketchup onto his plate. He looks up at Bucky with a bemused frown. “Do I have a what?”

“A girlfriend.” Steve just stares back, dumbfounded. “You know, a steady girl? That you’re seeing regularly?”

“What the hell, Bucky,” Steve says, then snorts a laugh. He sets the ketchup up down and laughs again, shaking his head back and forth.

“What? It’s an honest question.”

“I’m just—really? You think if I had a girl you wouldn’t be the first person to know? Besides the hypothetical girl, I guess.”

Bucky ducks his head, a little embarrassed but glad to hear that. “You’re just busy all the time.”

“Well, yes. So are you.”

“I guess.”

“Our schedules are just a little backwards right now.” Steve nudges his foot under the table. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?”

“You don’t gotta… It’s fine.”

“Bucky.” Steve leans forward to try to catch Bucky’s eye. “I know I haven’t been around much lately, but I’ll work on it.”

“Okay.”

“Is something going on? You doing alright?”

“Yeah, I’m—” Bucky sits back in his seat and scrubs a hand over his face. His burger’s only half-finished, but he thinks he might be done with it. It’s a waste. “I don’t know. Work’s a grind lately.”

“You could look for another job, you know. Not quit this one, just… explore your options.”

Bucky snorts. “Sure, and as soon as my boss finds out? I’m out on my ass.”

“You don’t know that.”

The ice in his cup rattles when Bucky grabs it roughly. The carbonation burns his throat a bit on the way down, making his eyes water. When he sets the cup back down with a sigh, Steve’s hand covers his on the table.

“Hey,” he says softly, “you can be careful. Or I can look for you, I don’t know, but I can help.”

It’s hard to think with Steve’s skin touching his. Without knowing quite why, Bucky pulls his hand away and folds them both in his lap. “I’ll think about it.”

“Is that all? How’s your dad been?”

“He’s fine, Steve.” Stony as ever, but that’s easier to deal with now that Bucky is an adult. And it doesn’t bother the girls as much as it ever bothered him, because they have Bucky now. “I don’t know. Guess I just been missing having you around, pal.”

“Aw, Buck. You’re such a sap.”

“Just being honest.”

“I know.” Steve smiles at him, small and sweet. “I miss you too, Bucky. I’ll work on it, I promise. You want some of my malt?”

“Like you even have to ask,” Bucky mutters, and then they’re both smiling.

It’s easier to slip back into lighter conversation after that. Steve laughs at his bad jokes, and the jealous knot in Bucky’s stomach eases as their voices blend with the rest of the noise in the restaurant.

 

 

Bucky doesn’t want to get married, but he starts thinking it might be nice to have a steady girl around anyway. That way he has someone else to occupy his time besides Steve, so Steve doesn’t have to feel guilty when he can’t find the time. Bucky has a few other friends but he doesn’t like them much; they’re all friendships of proximity, guys he works with but doesn’t care to see once a shift is over. He gets a beer with them once or twice a month, and all it does is confirm what he already knew: they’re all assholes.

The problem with girls, though, is that Bucky is particular. He’s particular about most things, but people especially. He can get along with damn near anyone if he needs to, but that’s not the same thing.

He likes a girl with some snap to her; demureness annoys him. Someone he can have fun with, who can and wants to keep up with him—someone smart. The problem with smart girls, though, is that most of them know better than to let Bucky put his hand up their skirt. Which isn’t the entire point of a girlfriend, he knows, but it’s certainly a compelling reason for keeping one around. He also has an inclination toward blondes.

But as it turns out, his work buddies are good for something. Hank McClellan’s sister brings Hank his lunch one day, and Bucky’s jaw just about hits the floor. She has bright blonde curls and a smile that’s positively wicked. Bucky’s sold. _Call me Liv._

He takes her out that weekend, and it’s Liv that suggests they go dancing. Somehow, they seem to have a few things in common. She’s a laugh riot, sharp as a tac, and dances so fast that Bucky’s exhausted by the end of the night.

They go out for dinner the next time, and she lets Bucky kiss her in the middle of the street after he walks her home. Her hands press to his chest like two electric shocks. He almost asks if she’ll invite him inside, but decides he’ll never get anywhere if he’s that forward, so he just kisses her again and heads straight to Steve’s.

Steve is happy for him. He fixes coffee, a slightly baffled smile on his face, while Bucky gushes about _her legs, Steve, Christ almighty._ He tries not to be crude, but Steve eggs him on about it.

“You sleep with her yet?” Steve asks.

“No, not yet.”

Steve hums around a sip of his coffee. “Not yet.”

Bucky gets his chance the next Saturday.

“So,” Liv says, pulling him by both arms off the dancefloor they’d just been tearing apart. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Bucky says. He risks a kiss on her cheek, and she laughs. “Great, even.”

“Really?” Liv eyes the sweat along his hairline. He can’t help it; she’s the most athletic dance partner he’s ever had. “I’m getting tired, myself.”

Bucky deflates a little, because they’d been having such a nice time, but he smiles in understanding. “That’s alright, Liv. Want me to walk you home?”

“Yes,” she says, and runs her hands from his forearms up to his shoulders. Her dark eyes rake over him, from his chest to his mouth and finally his own eyes. She bites her lip. “Yes, I do.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, his eyes wide in a way that probably hurts his charm a little. “Okay, yes, let’s go.”

They walk to Clinton Street together, Bucky’s arm firm around her shoulders. The night air is just cool enough that anybody looking would think Bucky is just being a gentleman, keeping her warm. He thinks about asking if she wants to be his girl, but maybe that would ruin it. He can’t get a read on her; he’s not sure that she wants that. He’s not sure he wants that. And besides, he hasn’t exactly told Hank that he’s been taking his sister out. Better to just see where the night goes, then.

Liv pauses outside her building. She lives in a boarding house, which ordinarily might be a problem, but she has the brownstone’s basement room with her own door. Somewhere along the way she must have given her landlady the impression that she was responsible. Bucky believes it; Liv is very put together.

“You can come inside,” she says, “but we have to be quiet.”

“How quiet’s quiet?” Bucky asks around a grin—a cat who’s very sure he’s about to get the cream.

“Silent,” she tells him, and puts a finger to his lips. She grabs him by the shirt front and drags him toward her door. “Not one peep.”

“Sure thing, angel.”

He should have expected her to move fast, given the way she dances. Still, it’s a shock to find himself crushed to the door as soon as it’s shut. She kisses him slow, but her mouth is about the only part of her that’s not moving a mile a minute. One of her hands flicks the buttons of his shirt open, and the other drifts over his hip and down, down.

“Oh, God,” he whines when her fingers curl around him through his trousers.

She shushes him. In a matter of minutes, half his clothes are on the floor and her dress is a puddle beside them. She only lets him take over once they’re on the bed.

“You done this before?” she asks him, whispering.

“Couple a times, yeah,” he says, fumbling to get the rubber on before she eats him alive.

She gasps when he pushes in, and buries her face in his shoulder. Her cunt is hotter around him than any summer day. He takes it back; he loves the heat. He moves inside her again and again. Her nails dig into his ribs hard enough to leave marks, and she yelps and spasms around him. “Shit,” he groans again. The room is already dark, but for a moment it goes even darker as his hips jerk forward one last time. Her legs tighten and untighten around his waist while he floats back down to earth.

“Jesus,” he mutters as he pulls out. “Thanks for that.”

She smiles up at him—still a little wicked even now—and grips him by the nape of the neck. For a second he thinks she’s going to kiss him. Instead, she pushes his head down. His brain isn’t quite on yet, but he still catches on pretty fast. He’s never put his mouth on a girl like this. Liv tells him what to do, though, and it only takes a little while till she’s muffling a cry into the crook of her elbow.

He sits up and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. The taste of her is still in his mouth. He wants a cigarette, but he’d hate to chase it off his tongue so fast. “Good?” he asks.

“Yes,” Liv breathes. She rolls her shoulders, then stretches her arms out high above her head. “I’ve had a nice time tonight, Bucky.”

Her tone makes it a fairly clear dismissal. He climbs off her and gets up to find his underpants, discarding the rubber in a trash bin. Liv doesn’t bother getting up to see him out, and Bucky’s unsure of the protocol. Should he kiss her before he goes? He thinks about it, takes a step forward—and then decides to just wave from beside the door, a little awkward.

“Quiet on your way out,” she tells him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, then winces at himself. Liv doesn’t see, though; her eyes are already closed. He must’ve worn her out.

The outside air smacks him in his still-flushed face. It’s late enough that it’s properly cooled off. It’s late enough that he ought to be getting home, too—but he’s a grown man. He can go where he pleases, when he pleases. A strut in his step, Bucky takes a right and heads toward Steve’s place.

Only one or two windows at the front of the building still have lights on, but Bucky knows Steve better than to think he’s gone to bed already. As in every other part of his life, Steve has a tendency to overdo it without noticing—he usually stays up till he’s practically dead on his feet. He’ll be awake.

Christ, Bucky can’t wait to tell him about tonight. He knows he ought to be respectful of Liv, but it’s not like Steve is going to go blabbing around the neighborhood about what they’d done. Maybe if he and Steve had a place together, he wouldn’t have had to stop at just the once. The possibilities would be endless.

He trails up the stairs, trying to remember which steps make godawful noises if you step on them wrong. His face is stuck in a stupid little smile. He ought to ask Liv if she has any friends that might like Steve. He’s a little strange sometimes, sure, but once you get to know him it’s easy to see that he’s a real catch. He’s the boldest, brightest person Bucky has ever met.

When he reaches Steve’s door, he glances at the bottom to check for evidence that Steve is still up. Light pours in a thin line into the hallway. He can hear murmured voices; some of Steve’s neighbors must still be awake. That or Steve is listening to a radio program, maybe settling in for bed. Bucky wishes he had a couch, so he could just stay here instead of going home.

He keys into the door without knocking—without thinking. The hinges need grease, squealing faintly as he pushes the door open. For a moment, the transition from the dark hall to the bright light inside is enough to make his vision go hazy.

When the blur clears, what he sees is a shock.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut one, twice, three times—but his eyesight is plenty clear by now. He’d had an eye exam once, and the doctor had told him his vision is about as perfect as a person could get. He can see for miles.

It’s just that what he’s seeing right now doesn’t make any sense.

Steve is in his bedroom. He’s on his knees before the bed; for a brief second Bucky thought he might have been praying, even though he knows Steve doesn’t really do that anymore. His eyes are closed, his cheeks dotted with new freckles.

And lower down, his pink lips are stretched thin around someone’s cock.

Bucky’s voice breaks when he calls out, “Steve?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to [me](https://twitter.com/bride_ofquiet) and [alby](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_) on twitter, and be sure to let us know what you think of the story and art in the comments! New chapters coming to you every day through June 29.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief/mild misgendering; a character with a rudimentary understanding of queerness and sex work.

Just as fast as Bucky comprehends it, the scene collapses.

“What the hell?” an unfamiliar voice yells.

The cock falls from Steve’s mouth. A strand of spit still connects its head to Steve’s bottom lip for a brief second before it, too, is gone.

Steve blinks, looking confused, while whoever’s on his bed hastily tucks himself back into his trousers. Then Steve whips his head toward the doorway, where Bucky is still standing like someone forced stakes through his feet. In the space between blinks, Steve’s expression warps into something more livid than Bucky has ever witnessed. He stands so fast it makes Bucky dizzy.

“Shut the _goddamn_ door, Bucky,” Steve says. Beneath the ferocity of his tone, his voice is raspy.

Bucky snaps back to life and rushes to comply. He shuts the door harder than he means to; Steve’s dishes rattle in the cabinet.

“Steve, what’s—”

Steve jabs a finger at him. “You shut up.” He turns to point at the man still on his bed. “And you should get out of here.”

“No _shit._ What the hell is this?”

“You’re fine—you have to go.”

“Who is he?”

“That doesn’t matter. Nobody.”

The man stands, and for the first time Bucky gets a clear view of his face. It’s no one he recognizes, and he can’t decide if that makes this better or worse. The man takes three steps toward the door—which Bucky is still blocking—before Steve grabs the guy by the elbow.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Steve holds out his other hand flat, palm up.

The man sputters. “You deserve half, if that. I didn’t even get to—”

“Yeah, but you and I both know you’re about to go home and jack it thinking about me sucking you, so you may as well pay me all of it.”

The man’s face sours, but he digs in his pocket and drags out a wallet. He pushes a bill into Steve’s hand. The paper makes a faint crumpling noise when Steve’s fingers contract into a fist. Bucky breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring, in and out.

Then the man is coming toward him, mouth set. “Tell your wife he ought to—”

A hand appears on the man’s shoulder. Steve yanks him around and gets in his face. “Get the _hell_ out,” Steve growls. “Don’t approach me again, or you’ll regret it.”

“Like I’d bother,” the man says, jerking his shoulder free. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

Some innate part of Bucky wakes up at that. He grabs the man by the collar, and forces him toward the door. “You heard him,” he says. “Leave. Now.”

The sound of the door closing behind him rings out like a slap to the face. Bucky stares at the handle for a too-long beat till his hand darts out of its own volition and throws the lock. Then he leans his weight into his hand on the metal, because there’s nothing else for him to do—he can’t bring himself to turn around. His mind clatters noisily, pots and pans tumbling from shelves.

“Jesus _fuckin_ Christ, Bucky,” Steve says.

Buck grips the handle tighter. Its curved edge digs into his palm.

“I said _Bucky!”_ Steve barks, then punches Bucky in the shoulder blade with a closed fist, his bony knuckles driving hard.

“Don’t hit me,” Bucky says, spinning around to face him. His hackles are up now. But whatever his face looks like, Steve’s is sure to look angrier. A vein stands out high on his forehead, blue and furious. Steve squares his feet and stands his ground, bundling his fists together at his sides. For a moment Bucky thinks he’s about to get hit again.

“That key,” Steve says, “for the last goddamn time, is for emergencies only. Do you understand now? Or do I need to smack you over the head with it?”

“Don’t hit me,” Bucky repeats.

“Don’t make me.”

They stare each other down while the seconds tick fiercely by. The air in the room feels greenhouse hot. Steve doesn’t let up, but Bucky won’t back down. He won’t be cowed. Maybe he ought to have knocked, but Steve—how was Bucky to know—he’d been—

“Are you going to say anything?” Steve asks, low and angry.

“What?” Bucky says, then finds the thread again. “What am I supposed to say, Steve?”

Steve throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know! Anything’s better than nothing!”

“Okay, fine. Who the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I _mean,_ I didn’t exactly ask for his name, Bucky.”

They’re still standing too close together. Bucky can feel Steve’s breath hot on his face. “So you just—I don’t even know what to say to that, Steve.”

“Sure you do. I can see it on your face.”

So Bucky blurts it out: “You’re a cocksucker.”

It’s not an insult, nor is it a question—it’s a mere statement of fact, the damning evidence burned into Bucky’s brain. Steve’s mouth. A stranger’s dick. The low noises that might have been coming from either one of them, stuck inside his skull like staples. The dots connect in a neat row.

Steve rolls his eyes. “If we’re being crude about it.”

“You’re queer.”

This time, Steve’s face pinches together into something unreadable. He searches Bucky’s face for a long time, gauging him for something; Bucky couldn’t say what. Then, slowly, as if it costs him more than he can comfortably afford, Steve nods.

“Yes.”

“I thought you liked girls.”

“It’s—God, I don’t have the energy to explain this to you right now. It’s complex.”

With Steve, it always is. “So are you a fairy?”

“Do I look like a fairy?” Steve asks flatly.

Men on the streets have said differently, but to Bucky—no. He shakes his head. “But you suck cock.”

“Jesus, Bucky, plenty of people suck cock. It’s not that big a deal.”

“But you said you don’t know that man. And you were just—”

“Sucking his cock?”

“Steve.”

“You started it.”

“I’m just trying to understand the situation. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Oh, it’s _you_ that’s being—” Steve starts to stick a finger at his chest, but something in his expression changes. The floor drops out of him. He sets his hands to his hips and hangs his head. “Hell, Bucky. Why can’t you just knock?”

“Steve—”

“I need a damn drink. Sit down, you’re making me nervous hovering by the door like that.”

Bucky doesn’t sit, but he moves toward the table and braces his hands on the back of a chair. Glass clinks together as Steve pours himself something potent, by the smell of it. He knocks it back, shivers, then offers the bottle out to Bucky. It’s something brown, no label.

“No, thanks,” Bucky mutters. He’d probably be sick if he tried to drink that right now.

Steve stares at him for too long, then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and pours a proper glassful this time. He sits heavily in the chair across from Bucky.

“I made time with Liv tonight,” Bucky says.

“Wow. Great news, pal.”

“That’s what I came here to tell you.”

“Tell me what you don’t understand.”

“She terrified me a little, honestly.”

“Bucky, what don’t you understand?”

“It was good, though. Really good. After, she taught me how to—”

Steve kicks the chair Bucky is leaning on under the table, hard. It jolts back three inches and digs into Bucky’s gut deep enough to wind him.

“Steve, what the hell?” he gasps.

“Liv’s a catch, I get it. What don’t you understand about the situation?”

Bucky bites the inside of his lips together. He finally takes the seat, and his eyes land on Steve’s collar, where it’s undone and pulled away from his pale neck. There’s a smudge on his skin, maybe ink. He must not have noticed it before he buttoned the shirt. It’s low enough that his collar would have covered it. Bucky wonders how it got there in the first place.

“Why would you do that for a man you don’t know?” he asks.

Steve raises one slow eyebrow at him, then the other, till his expression turns from skepticism to disbelief. His forefinger and thumb reach into his shirt’s front pocket and draw out a wrinkled dollar bill. He sets it on the table, and smooths it out with the edge of a palm. It looks like any old dollar bill.

Steve looks him in the eye when he says, very patiently, “For money, Bucky.”

“What?”

“To earn a living.”

“You—what?”

“Oh, come on, Buck. You saw him give me this. What did you think it was for?”

Bucky watched the money exchange hands, sure, but he hadn’t thought—he’d been too preoccupied with the image of Steve’s lips wrapped around—

“Think I’ll take that drink now,” he says.   

The bottle appears on the table before he looks up again. No glass comes with it, so Bucky grabs it by the neck and takes a swig. It nearly scalds his throat, and he coughs open-mouthed, flecks of moisture landing on the tabletop.

“Say something,” Steve says. “You’re killing me.”

“You—you do... that... for money?”

Steve ignores his sudden delicacy about it. “Yeah.”

“So the drugstore…”

“I lied to you. I’d say I’m sorry, but it kinda looks like I made the right choice about that, considering.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not exactly taking this well.”

“How am I supposed to take it?” Bucky asks, curling his hands over the table’s edge. “Oh, gee, Steve, I think it’s just swell that you suck men off for pay! They got a union for cocksuckers?”

“See? This is what I mean.”

“What?”

“I meant to—shit.” Steve presses his palms to his eyes and breathes out hard. “I was gonna… I don’t _like_ lying to you, Buck.”

Bucky blinks at him in slow incredulity. “You were going to tell me.”

“I don’t know.” Steve drops his hands, and the pressure has made the thin skin around his eyes turn red. “Maybe. In bits and pieces, not like this.”

As with most things tonight, Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. He settles on, “Oh.”

“I’m still angry with you, for the record.”

“Right.”

“And I want my key back.”

“Steve…”

“Don’t try to argue. I’ll give it back when I think you deserve it.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Steve eyes him warily for a beat, then reaches for the bottle to splash more into his glass. He sips it—not so much as wincing anymore—and nods. “Might not answer, but sure.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

Steve shrugs. “Dunno. About five or six months, I guess.”

Bucky chews his lip. Steve’s foot finds his under the table, and he flinches away hard—hard enough to make Steve frown, and slowly sink deeper into his chair. He looks a little sad. That just makes it worse.

“I just don’t get,” Bucky says, “after all the times I’ve told you that I’ll help you, that you can live with my family—”

“No.” Steve’s anger slides neatly back into place. _“No.”_

“I’m only telling you, you don’t have to—”

“What? Stoop to this? Belittle myself?”

“Steve—”

“No, shut up, I’m talking,” Steve says, fists braced against the table. “I don’t need you barging in here trying to _protect my honor_ or whatever else you were about to say.”

“I’m not trying to…”

“You are.”

“Okay, so what if I am?” Bucky asks, voice rising steadily. “Is that such a bad thing? You’re so _stubborn,_ every time I think I’ve gotten through to you, you take eighteen steps backward. I don’t even know why I try anymore.”

“Well maybe you should just lay off!”

“For once in your life, Steve, just take the damn help! You obviously need it.”

“You know what?” Steve is worked up, his face pink and chest heaving. “Fuck you, Barnes.”

Silence barrels into the space between them like a freight train. Bucky grits his teeth together and stares Steve down, thinking maybe the dust will settle in a moment like it always does—but Steve’s mind must be as set as his jaw. He doesn’t relent.

“Fine,” Bucky says. He stands, too roughly; the table legs squawk against the floor. “You want me to lay off? Fine.”

His footfalls are heavy as he storms toward the door. It’s only with the doorknob clutched in one hand that he remembers—the key. He fishes it out of his pocket and slaps it on the counter. Then, without checking for Steve’s reaction, he yanks the door open, steps through, and it slams closed for the third time tonight.

 

It takes half a block for Bucky to regret it. The cooling night air dries the sweat on his forehead fast enough to itch. He pauses in the middle of the empty sidewalk to scratch too harshly at his hairline and fish a smoke out of his pocket. As he lights it, he debates just how lousy it would make him look to turn around and march back to Steve’s with his tail tucked. He hates fighting, never really wants to, especially not with Steve—but sometimes Steve is this vortex of righteousness, and there’s nothing Bucky can do but get pulled right into the fray with him. It’s been a problem for a decade and a half now.

Hell with it. It’s too late at night to bother with pride anyway. He walks back, muttering his way through apologies he’s not sure he means yet and taking heavy drags off his cigarette. Retracing his steps, he traipses back up the stairs to Steve’s door again.

He knocks this time, four heavy raps against the door. It’s a solid piece of wood—probably the most solid thing about the building, which is good, considering.

When Steve doesn’t answer, he knocks again. Just twice this time. He takes another pull off his cigarette, letting the smoke spiral out of his mouth into the hall while he waits for a response. Nothing.

“Steve?” he says, leaning toward the jamb. “Steve, it’s me. Open up, pal.”

He thinks he hears something—a faint shuffling, a sound he can’t identify through the thick door. His ear presses to the grain, but there’s nothing else to listen to. He tries the door handle, just to see, but it’s locked up tight. Steve must have thrown the latch after Bucky rushed out. Or maybe he’s gone altogether, and Bucky is calling out to an empty room. The cigarette burns out in his hand.

It guts him to leave this time. Short of propping himself up against the peeling wallpaper in the hallway and waiting for Steve to come home or answer the door, though, there’s not a whole lot more he can do. Maybe it’s better if he honors his own promise to leave it alone a while. There isn’t a lot of cooling off to be done with the weather like it is, but maybe he ought to give things some space. Steve usually doesn’t see the point in holding grudges; Bucky hopes that holds true for him here.

What a rollercoaster of a night. It’s hard to believe he’d been with Liv less than two hours ago. The thrum of satisfaction still hasn’t quite left him, but it feels incongruous now to the way his stomach’s churning.

He walks all the way home, careful to keep quiet over the squeaking floorboards along the hall to his room. His bed welcomes him with clean sheets, and he falls into an exhausted, too-deep sleep.

 

Bucky tries Steve on the telephone the next few days, leaving messages with whoever answers, but it doesn’t take him long to realize he’s being ignored. The temperatures spike that week, cruel and ironic. With the heat, Bucky’s guilt starts to boil and reduce to something else.

It’s childish to be angry. He knows that, but knowing only serves to make it worse.

So Steve is queer. Fine. Bucky doesn’t really give a shit about that. He doesn’t understand it, sure, but he’s never had a problem with the fairies and their husbands and the boys who hang around the docks who very clearly aren’t there to unload any ships. Their personal lives are none of Bucky’s business as far as he is concerned, the same way he hopes any old person would keep their nose out of what he gets up to behind closed doors, too. Bucky remembers that big crush Steve had on Evie Fisher for all of sixth grade and how devastated he was when she moved away over the summer, and how Steve always seems genuinely interested when they talk about girls and their legs—but maybe people change their tune. That part doesn’t really matter to him so much. He’s heard Steve be called a queer so many times by assholes Bucky would later have to pull him off of that the idea lost any bite it might have once had. The most surprising part of it all is how it barely felt like a revelation at all, once Bucky sat down to think about it. He truly doesn’t care.

The other part—well.

Steve is the stupidest smart person Bucky has ever met. He’s seen firsthand just how much trouble that combo with a dash of do-gooder attitude can get a person into. In some ways, it follows that Steve would eventually find something even stupider to do in a back alley than getting his lights punched out. Out of all the stunts Steve has pulled over the years, this one takes more than just the cake—that’s the entire goddamn bakery right there.

But the one-two punch of discovering that his best friend is a queer prostitute isn’t what’s really bothering him. It really ought to be. He wishes it were.

He’s mad because the bastard lied to him for months. They’re supposed to be best friends.

Bucky makes mistakes at work because he’s too preoccupied thinking about how much he’d like to rewire Steve’s intestines the way he’s rewiring this fuse box. The foreman gives him an overflowing earful and boots him out the door four hours early. It’s not any kind of reward; about the only thing that makes sense to Bucky these days is electrical circuits, and the pay cut from the missed hours is going to hurt.

Janet and Rose are at school when he gets home, and Becca and his father are off working. He tries to avoid his mother by feigning the need for a nap, but she ropes him into helping her take down the laundry in the back garden.

“You’re tense lately,” she comments, unclipping the clothespins from one of Becca’s dresses. “Even Rose has noticed.”

Bucky snaps a clean shirt in the breeze. “Nosey Rosie.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s true. God love her, but you can’t tell that girl anything you want to keep to yourself. Or think it around her. Or—”

“Bucky.”

He casts his gaze momentarily skyward, breath hissing out. Rose is the best speller in the family, but apparently she needs another lesson in minding her own business. Only that, too, would probably make it back to their mother. She asked an innocent question while he was helping her with her schoolwork, and he answered it, like a twit who loves his baby sister too much not to answer her questions.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Freddie asks.

“Aw, nothin.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing you need to worry about anyway, Ma. I’m fine, promise. How have you been?”

“Is this about that girl you’ve been seeing?”

“How did you…” He sighs, clipped, and concedes. He ought to give Liv a ring, now that he thinks about it. “No, it’s not.”

“Is it Steve?”

The dress Bucky is folding doesn’t want to lie right in the basket. He has to try a few times, tucking and retucking the ruffled sleeves, till he can smooth a hand over top the neat square of fabric. He wishes his mother wouldn’t waste her time fretting over him, of all the people in this family to fret over.

“It’s—it’s not a big deal,” Bucky says, and meets his mother’s eye. “Honest. He’s just being stupid.”

“Bucky.”

“What? Come on, it’s not rude if it’s true.”

Her gold eyes narrow at him. “Yes, it is.”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky grumbles, and bends to grab the basket before she has the chance.

She pats him on the cheek. “It’ll blow over. It always does.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

 

Bucky stops calling Steve, and starts calling Liv instead. It takes a few tries to get her, even after he leaves messages; it seems he’s being avoided on a lot of fronts these days. But he gives Liv the benefit of the doubt, mostly out of brazen hope, and keeps ringing till she picks up herself.

“Bucky Barnes,” she says, and he swears he can hear that smile in her voice. He matches it, feeling good for the first time in days.

“Hey there, Liv,” Bucky says, trying for smooth. “Glad I caught you this time.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to take you out again.”

She hums into the receiver, and the sound buzzes through Bucky’s ear and straight into his bloodstream. “Well, what’s in it for me?”

“Anything you want, angel.”

“Mm. Careful what you promise, Bucky. I might take you up on it.”

She does; he doesn’t mind.

They go to the pictures, and though Bucky bought the tickets, he couldn’t tell you so much as the title of the film. Liv spends the whole run time dragging her painted nails up and down his thigh, and then she drags him back to her room to put to good use the hard-on Bucky’s been sporting since the opening credits.

She doesn’t dismiss him so quickly when they’re done this time, instead curling up on his chest like a content kitten. His skin feels about covered in her waxy pink lipstick, but he couldn’t care less. He likes the way she kisses, her lips all soft and smooth, the way her tongue darts out every now and then like she wants to taste him.

It slips out of him without thinking. “You ever suck a guy off before?”

Liv stills under his hands, then snorts a laugh. She sits up, and in the low lamplight Bucky can see that her bare chest is still flushed down to her nipples. “What?” she asks.

“Oh, come on. You heard me.”

“Yes, I heard you.”

He pinches her hip. “Then answer the question, won’t you? I’m just curious to know.”

“I’m sure that’s the _only_ reason.” She lies back down, smoothing her palm over his belly. “Yes. I don’t like it, though, so don’t ask me to do it for you.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Liv’s breathing starts to even out, and he wonders if she’s going to fall asleep like this. That would be sweet.

“You really wouldn’t?” he asks. “Even though I use my mouth on you?”

This time, when Liv sits up, her face is pinched in annoyance. “If you didn’t like doing that, Bucky, I wouldn’t ask you to. But as I recall…”

He’d licked her again tonight—asked her to let him do it, even, before he got inside her. She’d folded for him like a paper doll. He loved every second of it.

“Okay, point taken,” Bucky says.

“You should probably get going,” Liv says, already inching away from him. “Don’t want anyone to walk in and find us like this.”

By the time he’s dressed, her irritation seems to have faded. He kisses her again before he leaves, just to feel her lips one more time.

 

That starts him wondering about a few things on his way home, though.

Does Steve like sucking cock? He must. If Bucky understands anything about Steve at all, it’s that he doesn’t do anything that he doesn’t want to do. The money can’t be that good. He likes it, then—has to.

Maybe it’s a queer thing. Does he like it _because_ he’s queer, or did it happen the other way around? It’s the chicken or the egg—it doesn’t really matter—but Bucky is still curious about it.

He’s never been sucked. Liv is the only girl he’s ever even brought it up around; it’s not exactly a respectable thing to ask a lady to do. He wonders what it feels like. He can’t imagine it’s better than a cunt, but it probably still feels really good—and there’s the added appeal of his dick being somewhere it doesn’t naturally belong. A mouth. A girl’s spit all over him, maybe her lipstick too. It’s obscene, but tender somehow too, the intimacy of that. With someone’s teeth so close to his delicate parts, he’d be completely at their mercy.

His cheeks flush just thinking about it. By the time he makes it home, he’s aroused again, his slacks doing little to hide it. His whole family’s asleep, though, so he shuts his bedroom door and strips. On his bed, he gets a hand on himself and thinks about what it would be like to have someone’s tongue where his thumb is.

Liv doesn’t like it, but Steve isn’t Liv. Bucky thought most queers walked and talked like women, but Steve doesn’t. Steve had said that it’s complicated; Bucky doesn’t really know what that means. He doesn’t know much at all about what it means to be queer. Maybe it means you don’t mind having a dick in your mouth—goes with the territory, Bucky would think.

He’s still sensitive from earlier, and touching himself balances a razor wire between pleasure and agony. That doesn’t stop him, though. If anything, he strokes himself a little faster.

He forgets whose mouth he’s supposed to be thinking about by the time he comes.


	3. Chapter 3

After two weeks, Bucky decides that enough is enough. Either Steve hates him and never wants to see him again, or they’re going to fix it, one way or the other. At this point Bucky just wants some resolution.

That said, a couple answers to some of the questions he has—such as what the hell?—might be nice, too. Bucky isn’t so mad anymore, per se, and he’s not clutching his pearls. But he thinks he has a right to be a little incredulous about the whole thing.

He can’t avoid the fact that he’s curious. About what, he can’t quite put a finger to—all of it, he supposes. What kind of business plan does Steve have going on anyway?

Bucky tries calling first from the telephone in the hall, just to be sure Steve hasn’t up and moved in order to avoid him. A woman with a gravelly voice picks up the telephone and tells him _that little blondie, sure, he still lives here._ She refuses to knock on the door and ask Steve to come to the telephone, though, which makes Bucky wonder why she’d bothered picking up in the first place.

It’s not the assurance of having been invited over that he wanted, but it’s as good as he’s going to get today. Back in his family’s home, he sets a hat on his head and tries to sneak back out the door with as few members of his family noticing as possible.

“Where ya going, Buck?” Rose asks, her face appearing in the gap of the bathroom door. Becca’s head appears above her. Rose has a loose tooth; they’ve been wiggling it for half an hour in there.

“Out,” he says.

 _“Out,”_ Becca repeats with a snort. “Sure.”

“Don’t be a brat, Becks. I got places to go.”

“Like where?” Rose asks. Her tongue pokes out from her mouth, pushing one of her front teeth back and forth.

“He’s going to see his girlfriend,” Becca supplies.

“Want me to knock both your heads together? That’ll loosen some teeth for sure.”

Becca’s eyes widen. “Okay, sour puss, gee. Come on, Rose.”

They disappear back into the bathroom together, and Bucky manages to make it out the door without anyone else noticing him.

It’s not that he has anything to hide—he’s just going to see Steve. That’s perfectly normal. Or it would be, on most any other day.

The weather isn’t so bad this morning, which puts Bucky in a good mood. He doesn’t much believe in signs of the universe, but still, he can’t help but hope. He misses Steve’s nasally complaining. And the rest of him, too, he guesses.

Weeks without him, and it turns out there’s a lot of things about Steve that Bucky had never realized he didn’t want to live without. He really does miss his complaining—the way he lights up like firecrackers when he cares about something is a little awe-inspiring. And how he’s the funniest person in the whole world, but only Bucky seems to know it. His wheezy laugh, and how Bucky has to clap him on the back to remind him to take a damn breath, which sometimes only makes him laugh harder.

As Bucky walks as direct a route as possible toward Steve’s place, his heart pounds a little heavier in his chest, anticipating. It’s strange, but he never feels quite this way before he sees Liv. He chalks it up to the difference between friendship and romance—a difference he can’t quite articulate, but he knows there is one. He feels one. Steve is a constant in his life, more than he ever expects Liv to be. Bucky likes girls plenty, sure, but if he had to answer, he’d say he’ll always like Steve more.

So maybe he’s caving a little, but someone has to. It’s as good as guaranteed that it won’t be Steve. The good news for Steve is that Bucky doesn’t mind being the first to fall.

Outside Steve’s door, Bucky pauses for a minute, just to listen. The noise of a faulty radio—the same one Steve's been toting around for years—crackles under the door and into the hall. Some news program, because Steve’s no fun and doesn’t listen to music often. Bucky can hear the creak of floorboards too, and a single low voice like Steve is talking to himself, or maybe at the radio.

So Steve is home. Bucky is fairly certain he’s alone. He allows himself one slow, deep breath before he raises his knuckles to the door and knocks.

There’s a pause on the other side of the wood. The radio flicks off.

“Who is it?” Steve’s voice calls out, distinct now.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says. “It’s me—your friend, Bucky.”

The door opens a few inches, but a chain keeps the opening narrow. The gold cuts across the sliver of Steve’s face in view, a single big blue eye blinking reproachfully.

“Beefed up your security, I see,” Bucky says.

“Seemed kinda necessary.”

“‘Course. It’s a good idea.”

“Don’t need your approval.”

“Aw, Steve.” Bucky sticks his hands in his pockets and sways forward. “Let me in, will you?”

Steve’s mouth is still pressed flat, but it’s always his eyebrows that give him away. They raise incrementally, and sure enough, Steve reaches up to undo the chain lock. He nudges the door open with a foot and backs out of the way, waving Bucky inside.

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky says, subdued.

“Yeah, alright.”

Steve double-latches the door behind them, then spins to face Bucky in the middle of the kitchen. His arms are folded across his chest, shirtsleeves pushed up past his bony elbows. Sharp as knives, those things. If Steve is never going to go to a boxing gym like Bucky keeps asking, maybe he ought to teach Steve how to use the weapons he’s got. An elbow like that to the face could leave a scar.

“I wanted to—” Bucky starts.

“Look, it’s—” Steve begins.

They both drop off, Steve with a sigh and Bucky with a snort.

“Hey, I’ll go first, okay?” Bucky says.

Steve picks his gaze up off the floor to look Bucky in the eyes, wary but expectant. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes that could be from lack of sleep but might just be matching, faded black eyes. The room smells like coffee. Steve, with his messier-than-usual hair, must have just woken up.

“Bucky?” Steve prompts.

He’d been staring. “Right,” Bucky says, and licks his lips. “I guess I just wanted to say—I’m sorry, for the other day.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Do you accept?”

“Well, which part are you sorry for?”

“I’m—” Bucky frowns. “The not knocking, obviously.” Steve nods, and inclines his head. “But if you’re asking me to apologize for wishing you’d take my help when I offer it, that’s never going to happen.”

“Bucky—”

“No, look, I’m sorry I implied you were—what was the word? Belittling yourself. I don’t think that, but you can’t just expect me to… I don’t know, be comfortable with this.”

“Oh, I’m making you uncomfortable, huh?”

“Steve, Steve, please.” Bucky steps closer and puts a hand on his shoulder. Steve, thankfully, doesn’t shake him off, though his mouth is still flat as a rock. “I don’t mean it like that, stop twisting my words. I only meant that I worry about you, alright?”

That softens Steve, somehow. He sighs, his bare feet shifting on the floor. “I know you do. I don’t mean to make you worry. You don’t have to.”

“Someone’s got to.”

Steve taps him on the shin with his toes, miming a kick. “You’re a dope,” he says, but it’s around a smile.

“Don’t I know it. Are we okay?”

“Yeah, Buck, we’re okay.”

“Good. Hey, you got enough coffee to share?”

“Sure.”

The mug is still steaming when Steve sets it front of Bucky on the table, so it must have just been made. Steve sits with his own mug cradled between his hands, because his fingers get cold even in summer. Poor circulation, he says. Bucky blows on his coffee a few times before taking a sip. Steve always makes it black, though whether he actually prefers it that way or just doesn’t want to spend the money on milk and sugar, he’s never said. He can brew even the cheapest coffee into something worth drinking, though, so Bucky doesn’t mind.

Bucky opens his mouth the same time Steve does. They laugh about it this time, though, and it feels good—the heartiest laugh Bucky’s had in days. The two of them are always okay, in the end.

Bucky waves a hand at Steve. “You first this time.”

“I just wanted to ask how you’ve been,” Steve says.

“Good.”

“Your family?”

“Good.”

“Liv?”

Bucky smiles. “She’s good too.”

“Pretty perfect life you’ve got going then, huh?” Steve takes a slow sip of coffee, his eyebrows raised.

“Well, it’s—” Bucky huffs, and runs a finger around the lip of his mug. “Been kinda upset the past few weeks, honestly, but I’m better now. How are you?”

“I’ve been okay,” Steve says. “Better now too, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Steve nods, and it catches like warmth in Bucky’s belly before Steve continues. “I caught a bug last week and was in bed for most of it, so I’m a little busy this weekend trying to make up for it, but it could’ve been worse.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, then drops his eyes to the table, thinking about which part of that he wants to address first. He opts to keep it safe, to start. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks. I’d almost forgotten being sick gets pretty miserable without you bringing me soup every day.”

Glancing up, Bucky sees Steve’s eyes crinkled around a smile. “Just ring me next time. I would’ve helped anyway, mad at you or not.”

Steve shrugs. “You know me.”

“Unfortunately,” Bucky says, and Steve snorts a laugh, wincing. They sip their coffee before it gets too tepid to bother with. Its bold taste seems to bolster Bucky for his next question. “So, when you say busy…?”

Steve sets his mug aside, faint surprise raising his brows. “You really wanna talk about this?”

“Well, it’s—” Bucky grunts, but it’s mostly at himself. He’s walking very close to being an asshole about this, and he doesn’t want to be. He drains the rest of his coffee, then sets his palms flat on the table. “Sure. Yes. Tell me.”

“Very cavalier,” Steve murmurs, before continuing at full voice. “I missed out on money I could’ve made last weekend because I couldn’t really get out of bed—and _don’t_ make the obvious joke, it doesn’t work like that. So I… I stayed out later than usual last night—gotta do it again tonight, to earn back what I lost.”

It sounds like any other job: miss a shift one week, pick up an extra the next. If Bucky didn’t know the full context, he wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

“What do you do,” he asks, “when you… stay out?”

When Steve smiles at him, it’s half-mocking and half-fond. “Really?”

“I’m just curious, is all.”

“Sure,” Steve says, very slowly, watching Bucky carefully. “Curious, okay. Um. I’ll go to the park, or down near the waterfront, y’know, spots where men cruise anyway. A lot of times they’re looking for it for free, but you stick yourself in their eye line and sometimes they find a couple dollars to spend.”

“How does it work? They just walk up to you?”

“Pretty much.”

“But how do they know that you—that you’re willing?”

“Bucky…” Steve rolls his eyes. “They know.”

Bucky wonders if he’d know too, if he saw Steve sitting in the park, or leaning against a wall by the waterfront, framed by the glow of a street light. Is it something in his posture? Maybe Steve would look him up and down, subtle enough that if he had no idea he might think nothing of it—but if he knew, then he knew. And then he’d have to decide if he wanted to do anything about it.

He takes in a breath. “What happens next?”

Steve taps his fingers on the table, and if his expression turns a strange shade of intrigued, Bucky elects to ignore it. “It’s like art commissions, right? I’ve told you how those work. I ask a man what he wants, decide whether I want to provide, and we settle on a price. I’ve got standard rates for standard acts, but sometimes I go up.”

“Why?”

“If he looks like he can afford it. If he asks for something extra, or special.”

“And then you bring them here?”

“Sometimes,” Steve says, his eyes flicking to the curtain drawn over his bedroom. Bucky follows his gaze and leaves it there, studying the fabric while Steve continues. “Bringing them here is more safe in some ways and less in others.”

“Where else would you go?”

“A couple hotels that are alright. Sometimes we stay pretty much right there, if they want it fast.”

“Fast?”

“Buck. Come on.” Steve leans forward in his chair, one arm draped over the table. “I shouldn’t have to spell all this out for you.”

Bucky holds up his hands. “I’m just trying not to make any assumptions.”

“Ever the gentleman.” Steve shakes his head. “You done with questions now?”

“I can be.”

“No, keep asking if you want to. I don’t mind.”

“Okay. So—standard acts. That means…?”

“Oral. Anal.”

Bucky’s cheeks flood with color, and Steve blinks owlishly back at him, as if he hadn’t just glibly announced that he’ll take a cock up the ass for the right price. Bucky doesn’t mean to be so bashful; it wasn’t like he didn’t know that men do that with each other. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man with a cock must be in want of somewhere, anywhere to put it, _et cetera._

He just hadn’t ever thought of _Steve…_

“Don’t act so delicate,” Steve says. “I know you’re not a virgin, Buck. Surely this isn’t groundbreaking.”

“I just don’t really know how it works between two men, I guess.”

Steve honest to God _chuckles._ “Sure you do. You just don’t want to think about it.”

Bucky levels him with a petulant look. “It’s not that.”

At least he doesn’t think it is. Steve had said something a moment before that snapped something into place, though. It was a well known fact of their friendship that Bucky wasn’t a virgin—but Bucky had assumed Steve was. As far as Bucky knew, at least until a few weeks ago, Steve had never so much as been kissed.

And now here he is, implying he has sex every weekend at least. That he’s good enough that people pay him for it.

Bucky reaches for his coffee mug, his mouth suddenly dry, but it’s empty. His thoughts jump to Liv, and the way she whines and bites her lip when he’s inside her.

“Do you...” he starts, and licks his lips. “Do you like it?”

“Which part?”

“Um.” He’d meant to ask about the cock sucking, but— “Any of it.”

Steve smiles faintly. “You like sex, don’t you?”

“Of course. But it’s—I didn’t know if it was different.”

“With another man, or when you’re getting paid for it?”

“Either. Both.”

Steve hums, and fiddles with his coffee mug, sliding it a few inches across the table. “The money’s good. Sometimes the money’s better than the sex.” He pauses, and laughs softly. “Actually, it usually is. But I like the work most of the time, otherwise I wouldn’t do it.”

“I figured,” Bucky says, and Steve smiles at him, pulling Bucky’s eyes to his mouth unintentionally. His gaze lingers there, on Steve’s thick lower lip. “What’s it feel like?”

“What?”

“Sucking cock.”

“Oh.” Steve snorts, surprised. “I don’t know, Buck. Like you’ve got a dick in your mouth. Use some imagination.”

“But you like it.”

“Yeah, usually. A lot of people see it as demeaning but for me, it’s kind of a power trip.”

“Right. The—the control you’d have over a guy, and his pleasure. With your teeth right there.”

“Exactly.”

When Bucky looks up, Steve’s cheekbones are dusted pink. He wonders, if it didn’t smell like coffee in here, if it might smell like sex. It’s not a well-ventilated place—chances are, after Steve’s had a long night, it smells of little else. Bucky’s trousers are starting to feel a little tight across his lap.

“What if they want to fuck you?” he asks.

Steve’s chest rises on a steady inhale. He lets it out, slow. “If they can pay, I let them.”

“Do you like that too?”

“Does Liv like it, when you fuck her?”

Bucky nods.

“Okay,” Steve says, spreading his hands wide. He has these long, thin fingers. The pads are always stained one color or another. Today it’s red. “Similar concepts, I guess. It can feel nice, if someone is doing it right.”

Bucky’s mind scatters images for him like loose change: Steve with his legs wrapped around a man’s waist, on his knees like Bucky had seen him, in a man’s lap the way Liv had climbed on top of Bucky last time he’d slept with her, that summer sunburn flush spreading all the way down between his thighs—

Bucky coughs, loud, then does it again on purpose just to give himself a moment. Jesus Christ.

“You alright, Bucky?” Steve asks. “You need some water?”

“I’m fine,” he rasps.

Steve’s voice is odd when he says, “Okay.”

“Sorry. It’s just—” Bucky glances up at Steve, then drops his head back to stare at the ceiling. “A lot to take in. You know?”

“Well, not always.”

A surprised exhale punches out of Bucky’s mouth. _“Steve,_ Jesus.”

“Just telling the truth.”

Then they both laugh, and the weird charge that had been building in the room dissipates with the sound.

“You wanna go get a bite to eat somewhere?” Bucky asks, glancing at the clock on Steve’s kitchen wall. It’s nearly eleven—practically lunch time. Somewhere nice and public sounds good. “If you’re hungry?”

Steve looks at the clock too, face still alight with humor. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I should get a couple more hours sleep in if I can, but I can do lunch. Gimme a minute to get dressed.”

While Steve is in his room, Bucky sets his fists at his knees and lists the Dodgers’ home game scores as far back as he can remember, willing the tent he’s made of his trousers to go down.

 

The images won’t leave him alone.

Bucky damn near electrocutes himself at work that Monday, and does it again the next day too. He almost wouldn’t mind a little shock to his system, even if he knows better than to think it might help. He gets yelled at for his trouble. In a bright flash of misplaced energy, he almost up and quits his job—but manages to rein himself in at the last moment. Even if he is nearing his last straw with his boss, his head isn’t exactly clear enough to make that decision right now.

Liv has stopped taking his calls. It wouldn’t bother him so much ordinarily; he likes her but understands they’re just having a bit of fun. The fact that she won’t so much as come to the telephone to tell him honestly whether it’s over rubs him the wrong way, but even that isn’t so bad.

Call him a cad, but he really just needs to get his dick wet.

It’s all he’s thought about for days now, like he’s fourteen all over again, too preoccupied with his cock and the things it can do for him to care about much else. He blames the heat getting under his skin—under the whole city’s skin, because surely he’s not the only one feeling this way. It’s the flush in everyone’s faces, making each passerby look like they’ve just come so hard it hurt. Odds have to be that it might be true for a few of them.

When he does steal a few minutes to himself, a chair shoved firmly under the handle of his bedroom door, there’s no denying where his thoughts run off to. It’s more of a dead sprint.

Bucky has seen Steve all shades of undressed over the years. Trips to Coney Island and sleeping on each other’s floor and that time Steve had spilled tomato sauce all down his front and had to strip down to his briefs so Bucky’s mother could wash his clothes. Bucky knows about the mole on his right shoulder, and the way his hip bones stand out above the cut of his briefs. Steve’s expressive face and how he gets so pink when he’s worked up.

The problem is, Bucky knows him well enough to picture just what he’d look like pressed into a mattress. He can’t _not_ picture it—a nameless man on top of Steve, then another one who turns him over and takes him that way instead, another that Steve pins beneath him and rides till he’s panting.

Because there’s been more than one. Steve has let a lot of men—a lot of strangers—inside his body in a number of intimate ways, and it should bother Bucky, he’s certain that it should. Something about that should sit poorly, or not sit at all, because maybe he ought not be thinking about it in the first place.

He shouldn’t _like_ it. It shouldn’t turn him on so much that he can’t think straight.

But he does, and probably it’s just the idea of all that sex, but thinking about Steve getting fucked makes his cock harder than a hammer.

He doesn’t know what to do about that, besides the obvious. It had been especially bad that Saturday night, after he’d walked Steve back home and said goodbye. He’d lain in bed staring at that book Steve had given him, still trying to make any sense of it, till the last member of his family had poked their head in to tell him goodnight.

Then he’d set the book aside, and stuck his hand into his briefs. He came in what felt like seconds—did it again half an hour later. His blood has been thrumming ever since.

By midweek, he can’t take it. He needs something better than his hand, so he walks to Liv’s building, even stops for some flowers on the way. It’s low of him—he knows it—but he doesn’t think she’s the kind of girl that would mind. Hell, she might even understand.

Liv comes to the door when he knocks. “Hello there,” she says, a little stilted. She seems surprised to see him.

“Hi,” Bucky tells her, then holds out the flowers. A handful of daffodils, to match her bright hair. “These are for you.”

“Oh.” Liv takes the flowers mutely, her lips pressed together.

“It’s good to see you.”

“Bucky...”

His stomach drops. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t realize…” The neckline of her dress tightens and relaxes across her chest when she takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “Sorry if I led you on, but I didn’t think you were serious about any of this.”

“What?” Bucky frowns at her, puzzled, then— _“Oh._ Oh, Jesus, Liv, no. I mean—well, you’d be a catch, of course, but the flowers don’t mean that. They don’t mean anything. I just thought you might like to have them, is all.”

Liv reconsiders the flowers in her hands, thoughtful now. “Well, I do like them.”

“Good.”

“Just to be clear, you’re not trying to marry me?”

“If it’s no offense to you, angel, I’d rather not.”

The yellow blooms brush her cheeks when she leans in to smell them, and then she smiles up at him over the petals, her mouth curving deliciously. “Perfect.”

They don’t bother with the pretenses this time, now that it’s all been made clear. Liv drags him off the street by his belt loops right there in broad daylight.

Only the problem is, once their clothes are off, Bucky can’t quite seem to get things going.

“This has never happened before,” Bucky tells her—and it’s _true,_ but it’s still goddamn embarrassing that it’s happening now.

“That’s okay.”

Liv’s hand still works valiantly to wring some life out of his cock. He’s half hard, and starting to think maybe if he just went ahead and got inside her, things would work themselves out. The other half of him, though, just wants to bolt.

“You’re just not very into this today, are you?” Liv asks quietly, and Bucky knows he’s not reading the disappointment into her voice; it’s plainly there. Her hand slows. “Is it something I did?”

“Hell no.” Bucky cups her jaw, making her look at him. “It’s not you. I don’t know, maybe I’m tired.”

She kisses him, caramel-sweet. “It happens sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and when she starts to squirm away from him, he sets a hand firm hand at her hip. “Hey now—doesn’t mean you can’t get yours.”

She has to muffle her giggles into her hand when he flips her over and pins her to the bed by the waist. His thumbs rub circles over the points of her hip bones while he leans in to taste her. He half hopes this is what will do it for him—and it turns him on, it does, but nothing happens below the belt. Some connection between brain and body got fried like an overhot wire.

It’s frustrating beyond belief, but in the end, Liv doesn’t seem to mind.

 

He can’t make heads or tails of it, even once he’s home for the night. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s attracted to Liv, he likes her—they’re compatible in a breezy sort of way. Her tits are the perfect handfuls, and she kisses like she wants to melt him. Bucky likes fucking her, and she likes getting fucked by him, but neither of them are looking for more than that. That’s about as perfect a situation as Bucky could have asked for, and yet…

If his dick’s not interested, there’s no reasoning with it. Mind of its own.

While washing up in the bathroom, he turns his head to the side to see where Liv had caught him with her nail on accident, tugging his face further into her cunt than it really could go. She’d broken the skin, but only barely.

He licks his thumb and scrubs at the scratch, the dried specks of blood dissolving. He’s had a lot worse scratches, and bruises, and all kinds of bumps and scrapes. Steve didn’t like it when Bucky tried to “defend his honor,” even if that’s exactly what Steve was doing for someone else, but Bucky could never just let him get turned to fruit pulp. One break was enough for Steve’s poor nose.

Bucky wonders, offhanded while he washes his face with soap, what Steve might be like as a woman—if he’d be anything like Liv. He gets a flash of long, straight blonde hair and eyes with thick lashes.

The picture won’t stick, though. All he sees is Steve’s perpetually red knuckles, the sharp line of his jaw, the pale hair that dusts his legs. He thinks about Steve’s chest, flat and smooth, and how his hands are always a little rough because they get dry. Steve talking in his low voice, and how even though he’s small, he isn’t feminine in the least—he’s a man, through and through.

The faucet runs cold. Bucky’s hands grip the sink basin, while his cock fills fast enough to make him dizzy.

Oh, hell.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s an obvious solution to Bucky’s sexual frustrations. It stands right in front him three times a week, on average, and doesn’t know when to shut its mouth. Goes by Steve.

He could ask. Plain curiosity is what’s doing it, Bucky is sure—he’d never wondered what sleeping with a man would be like until now, and his body has decided that it would very much like to know. It’s not so strange a thing to want; sex is sex. And Steve, in his profession, knows that better than anyone.

It seems easy enough. He’ll walk over to Steve’s and tell him—

What?  _ Gee, Steve, I’d sure like to sleep with you, if you can pencil me in this afternoon.  _

It ought to be more complicated than that, somehow. 

Then again, maybe Bucky is overthinking things. The situation is straightforward enough, when he lays it out in his head. All he’ll need to do is behave like any other man who comes across Steve when he’s out on the street. It’s business; Bucky can be just another paying customer, simple as that.

He has some money put away. It’s nothing much, just what few dollars he could spare here and there, tucked into a ratty pair of socks he hasn’t worn in years. In theory, this money is for emergencies—his father loses his job again, one of the girls busts her shoe, Steve gets sicker than usual. But it’s been a long time since he had to dip into it. The odds are decent that if he skims some bills off the top, it won’t hurt anyone. No one even knows he has this stash anyway.

So he decides, one weekday morning when it's too early to be bright, to dig out that pair of socks. He smooths the bills out on the edge of his dresser before counting them, one by one. The sound of someone else waking up, coughing as they come into the hall, startles him; he has to count the money twice.

Steve never told him how much he charges, probably because Bucky never asked. He’s not sure how to put a price on something like that himself. He saw money pass hands that first night, but he can’t remember how much it was. The suit he’d bought two years ago had been a clean twenty bucks—half that? More? Less?

In the end, he ends up shoving a handful of bills into his breast pocket before darting out the door. He’d almost made himself late to work. 

It’s a slow day of troubleshooting, made slower by the fact that Bucky can’t focus long enough to figure out what the actual problem with this machine’s wiring is. He hurls solutions at the wall till one of them seems to stick, and the machine turns on again when he flicks the switch for the umpteenth time. He has no clue what did it, but it doesn’t matter—having it fixed means he’s finally free to leave for the evening.

A faint buzz hums under his skin on the train ride toward Steve’s neighborhood. Maybe he’d touched one too many wires today, but the feeling makes it hard for him to sit still; he gives his seat up to the first gray-haired person who shuffles into the car at the next stop. He clings to a pole instead to keep himself steady with the sway and pitch of the train as it hurtles closer to his destination. His fingers start to ache from his too-fierce grip.

There’s a knot in his gut by the time he makes it to Steve’s building. He loiters outside a while, taking a few last desperate pulls from the cigarette he’d lit on the walk from the station. A man on his way out of the building pauses to bum a smoke, and Bucky agrees. It isn’t dark yet, but it’s dim enough that the cherry seems high wattage bright as the man lights up, the flame from the lighter dancing before his handsome face. The man makes slow eye contact, says thanks, then turns tail just as quick as he’d appeared.

Bucky takes another drag, staring hard at the red-brown brick of Steve’s building. Usually a smoke eases his nerves, but he’ll be damned if he can figure out why this isn’t calming him down in the least. Zero for two today in the problem solving department. 

It’d help if he knew what the hell he was nervous about.

It’s only Steve. Nothing to be so scared of.

Or maybe—

He drops his cigarette to the pavement and grounds it out with the heel of his shoe. Patting the bills still folded in the pocket over his chest, he stomps up the steps to the building before he loses what few nerves he’s still got in possession.

When he knocks, he hears Steve call out from the other side of the door.

“It’s open.”

The hinges squeak faintly when he pushes the door ajar. “I coulda been anybody, you know,” Bucky says, glancing around for Steve.

Steve appears in the archway to his bedroom and lays a hand against the jamb. “Your knock’s distinctive,” he says. “Rhythmic.”

His shirt is unbuttoned down to his waistband—hastily thrown on. Bucky’s eyes follow the trail of his pale, exposed skin from his collarbone down, to where it tapers neatly at his belly, faintly gold hairs just visible. He’s flushed, rumpled, his mouth too-red. A fading bruise under one eye, but that’s standard geography for Steve’s face.

No, it’s the look in his eye more than anything that tells Bucky exactly who that man he’d passed a cigarette to outside was. A residual heat burns in Steve’s blue irises—the charcoals leftover from an open flame.  

Seems Bucky isn’t Steve’s only customer today. The thought makes his lungs feel too small in his chest.

“How you been, Buck?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you would’ve come by this week.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I’m—been busy.”

“Okay. You coming in, or…?”

It’s only then that Bucky realizes he’s still standing halfway in the hall. A few steps forward, and he can shut the door behind him—softly this time. He worries about Steve’s door; it’s thick, but is it thick enough to muffle what goes on beyond it?

Steve hasn’t stopped watching him from the archway. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve got—um.” Bucky sticks his fingers in his pockets and fishes out the dollar bills. It’s about ten in total, he thinks; that ought to cover it. “Here,” he says, holding the money out.

A frown creases Steve’s face. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“No, I know, it’s—”

“If I need your money, I’ll ask for it.”

Bucky can’t help but roll his eyes. “No, you won’t. But it’s not for…”

“What? What’s it for, then?”

“It’s—well, it is for  _ you, _ but it’s…” He sighs, short and sharp, and flaps the bills in the air. “It’s payment.”

“Payment,” Steve says flatly.

Then, slowly, his face changes. Whatever warmth had been left in his eyes snuffs out. His mouth falls open, then shuts just as abruptly, his jaw turning sharp as a knife edge with how hard it clenches.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he bites out.

Bucky’s stomach drops into oblivion. “Steve—”

“Is this your idea of a joke? Some shit sense of humor you’ve got there, Barnes.”

“No—no, it’s not a joke, Jesus.”

Steve stalks across the room and gets in his face. He tears the money out of Bucky’s hand just to shove it back into his chest. This close, Bucky can smell the sweat on him, see it where it still gleams along the bare dip of his sternum. Despite himself, it makes his mouth go dry.

“Then what is it?” Steve asks. His hand fists in Bucky’s shirt, the dollars crumpled against the cotton. His eyes always seem so much bluer when his cheeks are pink with anger. “What are you doing, Bucky?”

“I want to pay you,” Bucky says, trying to sound even. It won’t help if he falters now.

“For sex.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Liv stop putting out?”

“No, I just—I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Thinking about it.” Steve squints at him, then drops his hand. The dollars come away stuck to his palm. “You know this is way too much money, right?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Way too fuckin much.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Put that together on my own, thanks.” Steve puts his back to him, and a few feet of space between them. His shoulders are hunched around heavy breaths. The money is still in his hands. “Jesus H., Bucky,” he mutters, almost too soft to hear.

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice quakes more than he’d like—he did something wrong; he has to backpedal, and quick. He couldn’t stand it if Steve threw him out again. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, this was stupid. Forget I even asked.”

“Do you really want me?” Steve whispers.

“What?”

“I asked,” Steve says, looking over his shoulder, “do you really want this?”

Bucky swallows, thick and rough. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I—I don’t know. I just do.”

Steve turns to face him again, squaring his shoulders. His eyes are strangely dark and unreadable. “Take your money back,” he says, holding it out. “For now.”

“For… now?”

“I need to think about it.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes. “That’s fine, okay. Do you—”

“Don’t, just—don’t say anything else.” The floorboards creak when Steve steps into his space again. He folds the dollars, as neat as he can with fingers that seem to be trembling, and tucks them back into Bucky’s shirt. He pats the pocket smooth, then sets his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. His grip is light at first, then tighter—fiercer. “Just… go home. I’ll call you when I’ve decided. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s fingers flex, his thumbs digging hard into Bucky’s trapezius, before he lets him go. He doesn’t offer another word. Instead, he just turns around, and walks stiffly back toward his bedroom.

“I’ll get out of your hair.” When Steve doesn’t answer, Bucky starts backing toward the door. “Leave a message, if I’m not home. But, y’know, not—”

“I know, Buck,” Steve sighs. “Go on home now.”

And so he does, walking with heavy feet all the way. 

  
  


Bucky is jumpy all the next day. He almost wishes he hadn’t had the day off, just so he’d have something to do with his hands. He winds up offering to help his mother with a few alterations she’s making on the girls’ clothes, but holding pins for her in the chair closest to the door while he waits to hear the telephone isn’t doing much to calm him.

“Ouch,” he gasps when, unthinking, he lets a pin dig into the flesh of his hand. “Damn.”

“Shush,” his mother tells him. “Are you bleeding?”

“A little. Er, well, maybe more than that.”

“Don’t let it get on your shirt.”

“I know.” He sets the pins on the work stand, careful to make sure they won’t roll off, before he stands. “Gonna get a bandage.”

The house is as quiet as it's been all day as he heads along the hall to the washroom. With his father off at work and the girls all at school, there’s no one to make a racket. No one to distract him from the fact that he hasn’t heard the telephone ring once all day, either.

He turns the faucet on and sticks his still-bleeding hand under the cool water to wash it off. He’d gotten himself pretty good. The blood turns the white basin pink.

He must have asked too much of Steve. He knows he must have asked for more than he’d thought he had, judging by Steve’s reaction, but Bucky can’t decide what seemed to upset Steve so much about it. Is it the removal of anonymity? It’s not like Bucky’s going to tell anyone—who the hell does he have to tell? He’s been keeping Steve’s secrets for years, hasn’t so much as thought about telling a soul what he knows about him now.

Maybe he should insist on taking it back—just tell Steve it’s not worth throwing another wrench into their friendship over, if that’s how he feels. Maybe Steve knows someone else he could go to instead, some other man like Steve who might…

But the thought peters off before he can finish it, too unappealing to bother with. The thing is, Bucky  _ likes _ knowing the person he’s putting his dick into. Anonymity, sleeping with a stranger, doesn’t really appeal to him. If he’s going to have sex with a man, he wants it to be Steve.

When the water dripping from his hand runs clear, he shuts off the faucet and reaches for a towel. It’s as he’s drying his hand off that he hears it: the shrill cadence of the telephone ringing.

He barrels into the hall and toward the front door with the towel still wrapped around his hand. The front door sticks, swollen with humidity, till he yanks hard enough to get it open. He’s too late, though—Mrs. Rothschild from upstairs already has the receiver to her ear.

“Well, I don’t know, but I suppose I could… Oh, actually, dear, here he is now. What’s happened to you, Bucky?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Rothschild. Is that Steve?”

“Is it—?” Her eyes flick to the receiver, then back to his face. “Oh, yes, a Steve Rogers on the telephone for you.”

“Okay.” He holds out his unwrapped hand. “Can I…?”

“Sure, yes, go ahead.”

Mrs. Rothschild passes Bucky the receiver before taking up her shopping bags again. Bucky holds the receiver to his chest, waiting while she hums her way up the stairs. Finally, he hears her door shut above him.

“Steve?” he says as soon as he has the telephone to his mouth. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Steve’s voice says, too small-sounding in Bucky’s ear.

“How are you?”

“Fine. Look, Bucky—”

“Okay, sure, I understand.”

“What?”

“I said I get it, Steve, it’s alright.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet, you ignoramus,” Steve huffs. Bucky clamps his mouth shut and waits. “I was going to ask if you’re busy this evening.”

“Oh. Um. No, don’t think I am.”

“Well, okay. You come see me tonight then.”

“I… You mean…?”

“Yes, Buck, I mean. I don’t normally get to ask this, so please wash up before you come, okay?”

“I can—yeah, I can do that.” His voice sounds reedy, even to himself. “What time?”

“Soon as you’re able, I guess.”

“Alright. Give me, say, an hour?”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Great. Thank you, Steve.”

“You say that again,” Steve says, “and I’ll kick your ass.”

Then the line goes dead. 

  
  


By Bucky’s watch, it takes him precisely an hour and three minutes to make it to Steve’s. His hair is still slightly damp at the nape of his neck from where he’d been washing up in the sink and decided to stick his whole head under the tap, for good measure. He’d tried to make himself look decent—a force of habit more than anything. 

He smooths his hand over his hair again, to make sure it’s still lying the way he likes. His shirt, too, is fresh and clean, all the wrinkles ironed out. Nothing dressy, nothing impressive, but it had felt important to him to look nice.

Steve’s plain door seems to loom. What waits for him behind it, he’s not quite sure.

When he knocks, it’s quick and recognizable. He’d never noticed, till Steve had pointed it out, that he always knocks in the same pattern:  _ dum dum—dum duh-duh dum. _

His gut, already strung tight as piano wires, draws impossibly more taut when he hears the chain slide on the other side of the door. It’s only Steve, just Steve, his good friend who sometimes snorts when he laughs— 

The door swings open, and there he is.

“You made it,” Steve says.

The late afternoon sun pours in from the single window at the rear of the room, backlighting Steve in gold and orange. Bucky’s eyes sweep over him, cursory at first, then more deliberately when he remembers his cards are already on the table; he may as well look properly. There’s nothing different to see—Steve is Steve—but something about the looking feels different, this time. Bucky licks his lips, and meets Steve’s bright eyes.

“I did,” Bucky says.

“Well.” Steve takes a slow breath. “Come in, then.”

Steve locks the door behind them and slides the chain into place. Bucky watches him do it, and the tension in his core settles into the steady drone of a motor engine. Suddenly it’s fueling him, rather than holding him back, and it’s all he can do to keep his hands in his pockets. He thinks about the way Liv always tears into him as soon as he’s in her room. Maybe Steve has rules, though, for how this starts.

“So,” Steve says, loud and clear. If he’s feeling awkward at all, he doesn’t show it when he turns to face Bucky across the tiny kitchen. “Need anything to drink?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Here.” Bucky fishes into his pocket and pulls out the same ten dollars from yesterday. Steve had said it was too much, but he doesn’t mind. “Figured I’ll pay up front, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, no.” Steve holds up his hands, his face impassive. “I’m not taking that.”

“You’re—what?”

“I’m not taking your money.”

Bucky’s brow folds. “Why?”

“Don’t ask me that. If we’re doing this, I’m not taking your money. The door’s right there, if that doesn’t work for you.”

The jut of Steve’s chin, so familiar, tells Bucky he’s serious. “Okay,” Bucky says softly, and tucks the money back into his pocket. Maybe Steve has an emergency sock somewhere too that Bucky can stick the bills into later, just as a kindness. Though of course, with Steve, that’d probably be an insult. “So, how does this—”

Steve holds up a finger. “Hold tight.” He turns and glides into his bedroom. Bucky watches his back as he climbs onto the bed, on his knees, then stretches up to pull a thick piece of fabric down to cover the window. The light in the room shifts, flattening like a lid shut.

When Steve stands again, he spins to face Bucky, his hands on his hips. “You can come in here,” he says.

Bucky’s feet carry him forward without command from his brain. The very walls seem to buzz, once he’s in the little box of Steve’s bedroom. “Should I—?” he asks, jutting a thumb toward the curtain.

Steve shrugs. “Not necessary, but if you want it closed, you can close it.”

The curtain slips from the nail holding it up with a gentle tug, falling to cover the archway, further enclosing them. Bucky watches the fabric dance and sway till it stills.

Steve clears his throat, drawing Bucky’s attention back to him. “You still sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” Bucky’s eyes drop to Steve’s mouth. “I want you to suck me.”

“Anything else?” Steve looks him over, slow and professional. “Will you want to fuck me too?”

“Is that okay?”

Steve’s lips quirk up, almost a smile. “It’s for you to choose, sugar.”

The endearment drips hot down Bucky’s center in a way he isn’t sure he likes. Steve’s never called him anything sweet like that before.

“How about,” Steve says, “we assume you’ll want to. You can always decide not to, it’s just easiest for me if I know what to expect.”

“Okay.” Bucky nods once, then again. “How does this start?”

Steve snorts. “Honestly? My usual routine feels a little stupid, since it’s you.”

“You can treat me like anyone.”

“Can I?” Steve’s mouth twists, then smooths over. “Are you hard, or do you need some help?”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his belt, below which his dick is starting to catch on. “Um. Working on it.”

“Here,” Steve says, coming closer. The atmosphere of the room seems to shift as he moves; Bucky sucks in a wet breath. “I’ll help you undress.”

On reflex, Bucky pulls his hands from his pockets and holds them out—to stop him, touch him, he doesn’t know. Steve’s eyes narrow, and then he frowns, taking Bucky’s left hand between his own.

“What did you do?” he asks, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage wrapped around Bucky’s palm. Bucky had practically forgotten about it. The full brunt of Steve’s concern is a lot to face, so close up.

“A pin. It was an accident, it doesn’t hurt.”

Steve hums lightly and turns Bucky’s palm over, before setting it on his own shoulder. “I’m going to take your clothes off now,” he says, voice low. “If you want me to stop, say so.”

His long, purple-stained fingers curl over Bucky’s belt. The buckle clacks, faint and metallic, as it unclasps. Bucky’s lips part, and he wishes he could see Steve’s eyes, but his head his ducked, watching himself work. The leather slides free of the loops, and Steve drops his belt on the floor. Bucky’s grip on Steve’s shoulder tenses and tightens. He thumbs the edge of Steve’s suspender, wondering if he ought to flick them off. If he’s allowed.

“Everything off?” Steve murmurs, finally glancing up at him.

“Um,” Bucky breathes.

Steve smiles, a little humorless. “Mm. Gonna have to take you slow, huh, honey? That’s alright.”

Steve’s hands slide under his waistband, just deep enough to grab his shirttails and tug them free. His palms slide under Bucky’s shirt, cool against Bucky’s suddenly blazing hot skin, and pet at his hips. Bucky breathes into the feeling, his dick filling. This close, Steve smells like lemon soap. He smooths his hands around to Bucky’s belly and grabs the buttons of his trousers.

There’s a moment where Steve hesitates. It’s brief, but Bucky sees it: Steve’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, his teeth following after to dig into the bottom one.

And then his hand is on Bucky’s hard cock, palming him through the fabric.

“Shit,” Bucky breathes.

“You don’t need my help at all.” Steve huffs an exhale that might be a laugh. “Jesus. Big boy, aren’t you?”

He pops the buttons loose. Bucky’s hand flies to Steve’s neck, and this time it really is to touch him—but Steve balks anyway, squinting up at him.

“You’re so jumpy,” Steve says. “I’m not going to eat you, Bucky. Like I said—”

“I’m not asking you to stop.” He strokes his thumb up Steve’s neck, to the hollow below his ear. His heartbeat thuds against Bucky’s fingerprints.

Steve holds his gaze, indecipherable, for five slow seconds. He swallows, says, “Good.”

Then he drops to his knees.

It’s clear—immediately—that he knows what he’s doing. He slips his hand into Bucky’s underpants and pulls his cock free. The air of the room has barely hit it before Steve’s breath is there too, ghosting over him all warm and wet. From where he stands, all Bucky can see is the dark spread of his lashes and the points of color high on his freckled cheeks—and his own cock, half an inch from Steve’s thick lower lip.

The coiled spring in Bucky’s gut snaps in half the moment Steve’s lips fold over the head of his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, then groans it back out. The smooth heat of Steve’s mouth envelopes him. He staggers backward, needing the support of the wall, and Steve just shuffles after him along the floor, never losing his grip on the base of Bucky’s dick.

“You can touch me, you know,” Steve murmurs, before lapping Bucky back into his mouth.

“Christ,” Bucky gasps. He braces his bandaged hand on the wall and threads the other into Steve’s golden hair, fingers curling over the crown of his skull. Steve rumbles around him—a moan, it must be—and then hollows his cheeks with what can only be described as ferocity.

If Bucky weren’t so inexperienced with this, he might be able to appreciate Steve’s technique. There’s a lot of it, he’s certain, the way Steve’ hand works over him, his tongue and lips and the well of his mouth all moving in tandem. It’s Steve; he’s tactical about everything.

As it is, Bucky can’t think much past the pleasure. His cock in Steve’s mouth. The sensation pools in his hips, swirling and simmering and building the longer this goes on.

“Steve,” Bucky mumbles, pushing the hair away from Steve’s forehead and redoubling his grip on the strands. “Steve, Jesus.”

Steve pulls back with a wet pop and a heavy exhale. He licks a stripe up the length of Bucky’s cock, like it’s candy, like he loves it. “Do you like it?” he asks, and he looks up at Bucky for the first time since he began. His eyes are two shocks of blue. “Is it what you’d thought about?”

“Yes.” Bucky can’t look away from him. “Yes, it’s—”

“You want to come just like this, or do you want to fuck me first? What do you think, baby?”

“I—”

This time, the endearment hits him like cold water. The spell doesn’t break, but it weakens. Steve’s fist sliding over him still feels damn good, but suddenly he’s acutely aware that Steve is—working. This is his job. It’s his job, and that’s fine—he’s good at it—but for a moment it had felt as if…

As if what? The thought’s gone before he can finish it; they both know why they’re here.

“I want inside you,” Bucky says, and a shiver shakes Steve’s shoulders. Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s real or pretend; it looks real enough. That’s the point.

“Bed,” Steve says. “Clothes off, as many as you want, and lie down.”

Bucky kicks his shoes off and shucks his trousers, while Steve gets up from the floor. He moves to his nightstand and pulls something out of a drawer, setting it on the surface. When he turns, flicking open the buttons of his shirt, he smirks at Bucky. It’s a genuine Steve smirk, the one he’s seen a thousand times.

“Wouldn’t want creases.”

“What?”

Steve points to where Bucky folded his trousers into a neat square. “Wonder what else you can fold in half like that, huh, baby?”

This time, it’s faint, but Bucky winces.

Steve pauses, half-undressed. His mouth pulls down at the corners. “Do you not like that? When I talk like that?”

“No, it’s—”

“I don’t have to, some people don’t—”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“For the last time, this is about  _ you,” _ Steve growls, then drops his trousers to the floor, leaving himself naked. “Are you getting on the bed, or are we done?”

Silently, Bucky makes for the bed. He folds his shirt too, just to be consistent, and tosses it to land on top of his his trousers on the floor. Now they’re both bare. As Bucky scoots and settles on the bed, he can’t help but let his eyes rove over Steve. He still has that mole on his right shoulder, and a smattering of freckles from where he’d burned earlier in the summer, just as Bucky had predicted. His body is small, bony, squared off and neat in a way that makes Bucky’s tongue feel too big for his mouth. A few bruises litter his hips, yellowed and fading—marks of men who’ve had him already. That, too, catches and lodges in Bucky’s brain like flies on honey. 

When Steve climbs onto the bed after him, Bucky’s eyes drop to his cock, where it hangs all pink and unexpectedly thick. He does enjoy it then, like he’d said.

“I’ll keep sucking you while I get ready,” Steve says, pushing Bucky’s knees apart so he can kneel between them.

“Get ready?”

Steve starts to roll his eyes, then stops himself. He reaches for the tin on the nightstand and holds it up so the metal catches the lamplight. It’s petroleum jelly. “Doesn’t get wet like a girl.”

“Oh.”

“Just lie back—it’ll only take me a minute.”

Bucky closes his eyes this time, when Steve tips him back into his mouth. He’s gentler now, just stoking the coals. Bucky hears a slick sound, and Steve’s long exhale through his nose tickles the base of Bucky’s cock. He cracks an eye open to see Steve bent over him, one hand braced by Bucky’s hip while the other curls around behind him. He has his fingers inside himself, Bucky realizes. A bright spark flares in his stomach just picturing it.

“How do you want me?” Steve asks, panting when he pulls off Bucky’s dick.

Bucky hums and opens his eyes, not quite hearing. There’s a crumpling paper noise, too, and then Steve’s hands are on his dick again, rolling a rubber over him.

“Coupla positions that hurt my back after a while,” Steve says, “but I’m game for anything. What do you want?”

“Um...”

“Shit. That good, huh? Gonna have you write some customer reviews, I guess.” Steve sits up and grabs Bucky’s elbow, dragging him up too. “Come on, just get behind me. Easiest for everybody like that.”

The mattress springs squeak as Bucky knee-walks to the foot of the bed. Steve is on his hands and knees now, the knobs of his spine cast into relief by the lamp. His body a rigid mountain range. Bucky floats one hand toward him, unsure. He’s rubbed Steve’s back before, on days when he’s hurting enough to want it, but there were always clothes in the way.

“You can touch me,” Steve says. Bucky looks up to see his neck craned around, watching him back. “Or grab me, whatever. I don’t mind.”

Bucky sets the heel of his palm into the hollow of Steve’s back and grinds down. Steve’s head drops, a sharp breath falling from his lips. He sags a little, relaxing, so Bucky holds him by the hip to keep him steady and kneads harder at that deep spot of tension.

“Not what I meant by that,” Steve murmurs.

“You like it, though.”

“Come on.” Steve sighs and shifts his weight, freeing up a hand to reach back and spread himself open. “Put your cock in me, ba—Bu—come on.”

Bucky’s hands still. He looks down to where Steve is parted for him, his ink-stained fingers bright against his pale skin. The petroleum jelly glistens where it’s smeared between his cheeks, over the pink spot in the middle. Curious, Bucky slides a thumb along the crease and presses it against Steve’s hole. Steve grunts and pushes into his touch—and whether he’s really this responsive or it’s just for show, that noise buzzes under Bucky’s skin. He redoubles his hold on Steve’s hip and grasps his cock, shifting till the head meets Steve’s entrance.

Bucky leans his weight into his hips till Steve’s body gives and lets him in. A stuttered groan pops out of his chest; he freezes. But Steve knots his hands in the quilts and pushes backward, whining low in his throat till their hips meet, fusing them together. 

This is nothing like a cunt. Steve is so tight around him—a vise grip, almost too much to bear. It makes his brain fuzz in and out like static on the radio, only stray words like  _ good _ and  _ fuck _ and  _ beautiful _ making it through the interference. He touches the place where they’re joined, where his cock disappears inside Steve, just to feel the stretched skin. A breathy sound drops out of Steve’s mouth. He wonders what it must feel like—if his dick feels different to Steve than someone else’s. He hopes it does.

“You alive back there?” Steve asks, his voice deeper than Bucky’s ever heard it.

Bucky can feel his pulse in his cock where Steve has sealed him in. He thinks maybe he’s never been  _ more _ alive, in fact. The air in the room is thick and overwarm, and sweat is already beading at the nape of Steve’s pink, pink neck. Bucky shifts his hips, pulling out till Steve just has him by the head, and drives back in.

_ “Unh,” _ Steve gasps. “There you go, baby.”

Bucky forgives the pet name this time; maybe Steve can’t help himself. He thrusts again, setting a slow pace just to savor it. His hands smooth up Steve’s arched back to grip him at the bottom of his ribcage, where he’s rigid under Bucky’s palms but soft to his fingers. 

“You don’t,  _ mm, _ don’t have’ta be gentle,” Steve says. “Fuck me hard as you want. Strong fella like you, I know you can.”

Bucky slows even more, just grinding himself inside now, a mortar in a pestle. “That what you want, Steve?” he asks, like the words come naturally to him. “Want me to give it to you?”

“Yeah, yeah—” Steve slips to his elbows, his knees sliding further apart. His hole contracts around Bucky, hard enough that it has to be purposeful, and it damn near blacks out Bucky’s vision. “Gimme it, baby, I want it.”

That’s confirmation enough. Bucky’s fingers dig in to hold him steady before he pulls back and shoves in again, hard. Steve cries out, muffling it in the mattress. If Bucky didn’t know better than to trust the thickness of these walls, he’d grab him by the hair again and hold his head up, just to hear him whining. Their skin slaps together, the percussion of Bucky’s fierce pace. He watches himself sliding in and out of Steve’s body, still tight but welcoming him anew with each thrust. Steve is rose-flushed below him from ears to ass. He mumbles nonsense into the sheets, pleas and praise and insults to egg him on—Bucky’s beginning to think maybe it’s Steve that likes the talking.

Bucky drops his hands to the mattress and leans over him, breathing on his neck. The different angle makes Steve writhe and pant. “This is what you wanted,” Bucky says to him. “I’m good for you, Steve, sweetheart,  _ fuck.” _

It hits him unexpectedly—no build up, just blinding pleasure that knocks him over the head like bricks. His hips twitch hard, driving him deep, then seize and still. Steve pushes back into it, breathing encouragement that Bucky can’t make out, his ass milking Bucky’s cock for all its worth.

Soon it really is too much, too tight. He winces, grabbing Steve’s thigh to stop him moving anymore. Steve is nearly pressed flat to the quilts—Bucky must be crushing him. “Sorry,” he mumbles and pulls out with a wet squelch. Steve huffs and shifts over, making enough room on the narrow bed for Bucky to collapse beside him against the wall.

He’s not sure if he should, if it’s proper protocol, but he hopes Steve doesn’t mind when he slings an arm over his waist and shuffles closer to press against his side. It’s just that he’s used to curling up with someone afterward, if only for a little while.

With Steve’s breath still evening out beside him, he falls asleep within minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

The world is a strange color when Bucky starts to wake up. It’s the sun fighting to get through that thick curtain, he thinks—barely a curtain at all, something makeshift, like most of Steve’s things. Steve could make use of damn near anything, knew how to stretch a dollar so thin you could practically see through it. He’d learned it from his mother. The original Rogers art form, before Steve turned out to be pretty good at other kinds of art, too.

Steve’s good at a lot of things. Bucky wonders if it’s something innate, a natural well of talent, or if it has to do with his tenacity. Both. Maybe it’s a simple refusal to be bad at anything—except for shutting his mouth and flirting with women, but probably Steve just doesn’t care to be good at those things. If he wants something, he usually finds a way to get it, even if it means making it himself. It’s remarkable in a lot of ways. He’d wanted a curtain; he made a curtain. 

Bucky has always admired him for it, and even been jealous from time to time. He’d like to have that same fortitude, but he thinks it must be something you’re born with. You can’t just decide one day to have that kind of moxie.

After this evening, though, Bucky has started to wonder just how deep that well of talent goes. If there’s an end to it, or if Steve will just keep surprising him.

He sees now how Steve can make money off selling himself—why people are willing to pay. He’d damn near given Bucky an aneurysm dropping to the floor like that. Then everything that had come afterward… Well, he wouldn’t have minded to shell out the ten dollars.

Bucky wakes up slow, still warm and fuzzy-brained from it all. The bed is really too narrow for two people, but he doesn’t mind. At some point while he was dozing, Steve had turned and put his back to Bucky, which allowed them to slot together, Bucky’s knees pressed up behind Steve’s. Bucky could use a cigarette, but that’s not an option with Steve so close. It’s no real loss.

When Bucky blinks his eyes open, he’s greeted by the sight of Steve’s blond head. His hair sticks up at odd angles, in perpetual disorder but worse than usual right now. A thrill spirals through Bucky’s chest when he remembers he’d been the one to make it like that. 

He smooths a hand over Steve’s ribs, counting them to himself, wondering if Steve had really liked it when he’d held him just here.

“You awake now?” Steve asks. His voice is too clear.

“Mm,” Bucky hums, and slides closer to him. “Don’t wanna be.”

“Bucky.” For a moment, he sounds indulgent—but then he sighs. “Things are getting sticky. I gotta get up.”

“Go ‘head.”

“Pal, you’re practically glued to me. Get off.”

Steve elbows him in the hip, lightly, just to make his point. It’s then that Bucky realizes he’s latched onto him a little harder than he meant to—the way he’d hold, say, Liv after she’d fucked him for all he was worth. Probably it’s inappropriate, given the circumstances, to treat Steve the same way.

“Sorry,” he says, retracting himself till he’s pressed into the wall. “Just, y’know—” 

“‘S’no problem, Buck.” Steve shuffles to the edge of the bed and climbs nimbly off. “Not exactly the first guy to do that.”

When Steve stands and turns around, he wears an ironic smile, but all Bucky can see are the red marks staining Steve’s skin in the exact pattern of Bucky’s fingertips. If Steve notices him staring, he doesn’t comment—if anything, the way he stretches his arms overhead and groans, it’s like he wants Bucky to look. Keep looking. Maybe never stop, because he’s never bruised a girl like that, and the sight of those marks on Steve’s delicate skin is making the fog in Bucky’s brain swirl. His marks overtop of someone else’s, the freshest of the bunch and bright against Steve’s skin. 

A strange, possessive shiver rolls down Bucky’s spine.

“You gonna get up?” Steve asks.

“Oh.” Bucky looks down at himself, suddenly very aware of how naked they both still are. “Um. Yes.”

Steve snorts. “Guess you don’t have to. Normally about now I’d be kicking you out, but since…” While he talks, he keeps stretching, bending this way and that till his joints pop and creak. He seems comfortable naked in a way Bucky would never have expected from him. Maybe he’d been projecting. “Well, I don’t mind if you wanna stay a while, I guess. That music program you like is on tonight, right? We could listen to that, have something to eat. I’ve got some stuff in the icebox for once.”

“Okay. Dinner, sure.”

“Great,” Steve continues, stepping into his underpants. “I’m gonna go down the hall, wash up a bit first. I forgot how much of a sweater you are.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. I say I minded?” Steve smirks at him a moment, then concern tips his brow downward. “Hey, you had a good time, right? Forgot to ask ‘cause you fell asleep. You enjoyed all that?”

“I—did I _enjoy…”_ Bucky levels a wide-eyed look at him. “Steve.”

Steve beams, like something’s funny. Maybe it is. “Yeah, I thought so. Good.” He starts to give a mock salute, but lets it droop, wincing at himself. “Was gonna say ‘happy to be of service,’ but that’s a bad joke, huh? Sorry, see, usually my johns are gone by now, so I guess we’re learning that that’s a good thing or they’d never come back.”

Bucky isn’t sure when Steve turned into such a chatterbox. Maybe he’s—nervous, now. Or maybe that’s just what happens to him after he’s had sex, like how Liv gets quiet and Bucky just wants a smoke.

That sets him wondering, though. “Steve?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s head reappears above his shirt collar. “Yeah?”

“Did you come?’

“Did I—what?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“I just…” Steve blinks at him, bewildered. “The question startled me, sorry.”

“So did you?”

“No,” Steve says slowly.

Bucky’s mouth folds into a frown. “Was it something I did? Something I didn’t do?”

“Oh, Bucky—no, no.” Steve takes a step toward him, hand outstretched, but stops in the middle of the room. “I usually don’t, when I’m with a… It’s about you, right?”

“I don’t see your point.”

“Well, I’m focused on making sure you—or whoever it is, you know, that _he_ feels good.” Steve shrugs. “Doesn’t always leave a lot of room for me to think about my own dick.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Steve just stares at him, his brow slowly raising. “Now I don’t see _your_ point.”

“I just mean, it seems like you ought to get off too.”

Steve’s hand cards through his hair, but if he’s trying to smooth it, it doesn’t help. “Bucky,” he starts, then barks a flat, disappointed laugh. “And here I was thinking I was the idealist. Jesus.”

“What?”

“Naivete doesn’t suit you, pal. Are you gonna put some clothes on at some point?”

Bucky jolts to standing and grabs his clothes from the floor. A seam in his undershirt pops when he yanks it on too roughly. Steve wanders out of the room, legs still bare, while Bucky pulls his trousers back on. The dividing curtain swings closed behind him.

“What do you mean, saying I’m naive?” Bucky calls out, following Steve into the kitchen.

Steve is pulling glasses from the cabinet. “I’m not calling you naive—I said it doesn’t suit you, ‘cause I know you aren’t. There’s a difference.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean?”

“It _means,”_ Steve says, shoving a glass of water at him, “that I think you’re purposefully misunderstanding what my job is. ‘You ought to get off too.’ Jesus Christ.”

Bucky fumbles with the glass, looking for a place to set it down. “Steve—”

“Look, it’s sweet, okay? I appreciate you looking out for my dick, you’re an upstanding gentleman. But when a man’s paying to fuck me, it’s my job, as his _prostitute”_ —Steve draws the word out, like he’s not quite sure Bucky knows the meaning— “to do everything I can to make sure he’s enjoying himself. I like sex, so most of the time it feels good for me too, but my own pleasure is never my priority. So sometimes I come, sometimes I don’t. That’s just how it is.”

“But that’s—”

“Not fair, yeah, okay. If it’s you and that girl of yours, sure, maybe that’d be true. But this isn’t the same thing, Buck. That’s like saying your waiter at a restaurant ought to sit down and eat your meal with you.”

Steve takes an over-long sip of water then, and Bucky watches like he can see it sliding down his throat. He guesses he sees what Steve is trying to say, but it still rubs him the wrong way. It’d been easy to think of it just as Steve having a lot of sex. The money, even—sure.

Maybe Steve is onto something, calling him a naive idealist. But it’s just that Bucky believes sex ought to be mutually satisfying, no matter the circumstances. That it ought to—well, it doesn’t have to _mean_ something, not in a classical sense. He doesn’t exactly mean anything besides enjoying himself with he sleeps with Liv, and that’s what he’d meant with Steve too. But he thinks maybe sex shouldn’t be so frivolous.

He wants to offer Steve something in return. Steve wouldn’t let him pay, and he didn’t get off either—it’s wholly unbalanced now. But what’s he got to give him?

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Okay, so what if a man told you he couldn’t get off unless you did too?”

“Loopholes.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Then I’d get to come too. Say, you should start some kind of advertising campaign about that. You think that’s legal?”

“So you do wish you got to come too.”

Now, Steve starts to look visibly irritated—a little defensive. “Bucky, Jesus, do I have to ask you directly to drop this?”

“I just don’t get it.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m the prostitute then.”

This time, when Bucky visibly winces at the word, Steve’s teeth snap together.

“Look, I don’t want you to go yet,” Steve says, “because I’ve missed you this week. But if you need to leave to go get your head out of your own ass, you go ahead and do that.”

“No, Steve, I don’t—”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes, the light in his eyes shifting. His voice is smaller—a little scared all of a sudden. Bucky takes an automatic step closer, looking for a solution to a problem he hasn’t quite pinned down yet. “Oh hell, Bucky."

“What, what is it?”

“I should’ve told you no, right? I shouldn’t have…”

“Steve—”

“This was a mistake.”

 _“Steve,_ hey, will you cut it—” Bucky discards his still-full glass on the table and steps toward him, hands out but hesitating. “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a heel. You know I don’t.”

Steve chews his lip, staring at Bucky’s fingers. “You can’t even touch me,” he murmurs. It’s bitter and whisper-soft, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. The strange, sorrowful look on Steve’s face makes Bucky’s center ache in a way he doesn’t understand.

“Do you—you want me to?” 

Before Steve even finishes his jerky nod, Bucky wraps him up and clutches him close. The room seems to shrink. Steve feels smaller than usual and larger than life all at once, winding his arms around Bucky’s waist and holding tight. His chest heaves, breath hot on Bucky’s neck. It’s not a sob—Steve doesn’t cry, not really, not unless he’s deliriously sick and can’t help it. Bucky thinks it’s about as close as he’ll ever hear out of him, though. He pets his hand through Steve’s hair, an echo or an opposite of how he’d touched him just an hour ago.

“Steve,” he says, just to say his name.

“I’m sorry.” Steve sniffles. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. I think I’m overreacting.”

“It’s okay.”

They pull apart, still grasping at each other’s arms. “I just,” Steve starts. “I know we’ve been missing each other a lot lately, and now I worry I’ve gone and fucked it up even more.”

“No. No, you haven’t.”

“Because it’s just—it’s such a relief, for you to know. It was killing me trying to hide it from you. But I can’t stand thinking you—that you disapprove of me. I know I said different at first but your opinion of me really matters, Buck. I don’t want you thinking I’m a low person.”

Sometimes Steve’s honesty feels just the same as being slugged over the side of the head by a man who underestimates his own strength. All Bucky can do is fall with it and hope his counter might be half as effective.

“Steve, sw—Steve, come on. How long have we been friends? I think the world of you, pal.” Bucky shakes him by the shoulders a little, and Steve smiles, all watery. “We’re fine, okay? No mistakes. I don’t regret it.”

Steve nods, accepting. “Good,” he says. “‘Cause I don’t either.”

It’s that easy, sometimes, to put things aside. At least it is with Steve.

They eat corned beef sandwiches, and listen to the music program—and if they both laugh a little too much to compensate for the tension still lingering in the room, well, they don’t have any regrets about that either.

 

 

“Are you two ready to go yet?” Bucky asks for what must be the twelfth time in the last half hour.

He doesn’t get much in the way of response—Becca’s got three bobby pins hanging out of her mouth, and Janet is brushing her teeth for the third time. It’s always a production with these two.

Bucky doesn’t mind, though. He’s happy they asked if he would escort them to the dance at the church tonight at all; he’d worried they were getting too old to want him taking them. Becca is 17 now, and Janet just two years behind her. It’s not old, but they’re not baby girls anymore. Rosie’s the only real _girl_ left in the house—and isn’t that a horrifying thought.

He’d invited Steve to come along, too, but he just raised his eyebrows. _I’m a little busy on Saturday nights lately, Buck._ Bucky knew that by now, but he’d thought it was polite to ask him anyway, just to remind Steve that he wanted him there.

Eventually the girls do both make it to the living room, looking shiny as new pearls. There’s a round of hugs and _be good_ from their mother, and Rose whines the whole time about how she really is old enough and ought to be able to come too—and then they’re off.

“Thank you again, Bucky,” Becca says. Her new blue skirt swishes, the hem brushing Bucky’s calves where they’re walking next to each other.

“Of course, Becks,” he says. “You know I’m happy to go with you.”

“‘Cause we’re your only friends,” Janet says.

“Jan—” Becca starts.

Rather than bother to respond, Bucky just reaches over Becca’s shoulders to give Janet’s hair a light tug.

“Hey!” she shouts. “I oughta kill you.”

“Oh, come on, I didn’t move a hair.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Becca says. “Which train are we taking?”

“Becks, we’re not taking a train, the church is four blocks away.”

The street is busy this evening. It’s a Saturday, and everyone in Brooklyn seems to have crawled out of their buildings. Even on their mostly residential block, people are in and out, to and fro, dressed in summer clothes and smiling. The horizon is only just beginning to tempt the sun, throwing a warm lemon light over the city. The girls continue their chatter, talking about high school and who they expect to see at the dance. Bucky half-listens, most of his attention on passers-by. He’s in a good mood today—has been most of the week. Some knot in his stomach finally pulled free. It’s not hard to figure out what did it.

Around the corner from their building, someone calls out his name.

“Is that—” Jan says, then covers a laugh behind her hand.

“Bucky?”

Bucky’s good mood drops through his feet. “Liv?” he calls across the street.

Liv looks both ways before crossing to them, her cheeks red with exertion. Her slim green dress tempers the color, but only enough to make it look sweet, not hide it. The girls exchange slow glances, their eyes wide; if Liv wasn’t already in earshot Bucky would tell them to mind their damn manners.

“Hi,” Liv says once she’s reached them.

“Liv,” Bucky says. “Um. These are my sisters—Rebecca, Janet.”

Liv’s smile is perfect enough for a patent. “I’ve heard about you both. Liv McClellan.”

The girls murmur giggly greetings.

“Um,” Bucky says, “what are you doing in this neighborhood, Liv?”

She raises a penciled eyebrow at him. “You stood me up.”

“I—what?”

“You told me you’d come by at five.” She takes his wrist and holds it up, showcasing the face of his watch. “It’s almost seven.”

“Shit—oh, I mean _shoot,_ sorry, girls.”

“Oh, I’m just aghast,” Janet mutters.

“I just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” Liv says. “You know, since you’re usually so punctual.”

Bucky doesn’t miss the glint in her eye. “I’m real sorry, Liv. I just—I forgot, I guess, and now I seem to have double-booked myself.”

“Bucky is taking us to the dance at the parish,” Becca supplies. “You should come, Olivia.”

“Oh, it’s just Liv, sweetie.” Liv flicks her eyes to Bucky, questioning. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No!” Bucky says. “No, I mean—you’re not imposing.”

“Yeah, we don’t mind,” Jan adds.

“Really?” Liv asks.

Bucky hadn’t thought to ask her along—hadn’t thought it was something she’d be interested in, to tell the truth. It’s not exactly the kind of dancing Liv enjoys. That, and he’d assumed she wouldn’t want to meet his family. They all might think Liv is his girlfriend, but he knows better. He and Liv have established that fairly well, or so he’d thought.

If Liv isn’t his girlfriend, then maybe she’s just his friend—who he sleeps with, and often. He seems to be accumulating a lot of friends he sleeps with these days.

But if he invited Steve, then it follows it’s okay to invite Liv too.

“Yeah, really.” Bucky offers his arm to her. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Never one to hesitate, Liv threads her arm through his, resting her shock-pink nails in the crook of his elbow. They walk that way, the girls ahead of them, the whole way there.

 

 

“I’m real sorry again, Liv,” Bucky says when he finds her again, sitting in a seat along the parish hall’s edge. She reaches for the lemonade he’s brought before he’s close enough to offer it. “Probably not exactly what you had in mind for tonight.”

She smiles at him over the lip of her paper cup, like something’s funny. “It’s not, but this is nice.”

With her free hand, she gestures to the room, where all the _nice_ is supposed to be. Paper streamers hang from the walls in a poor attempt at livening the windowless room up. Most everyone here is at an awkward cusp-age, too young and too old at once, like Becca. No one is doing much dancing, and the ones that are aren’t very good at it. There’s a live band at least, even if all they’re squawking out seems to be uptempo hymns.

But the girls are always laughing when Bucky spots them across the room, so there must be something about it that he just doesn’t get. If Steve were here, they’d outpace the audible metronome making fun of it all.

It’s strange, sitting next to Liv with his sisters in the same room. Some kind of cognitive dissonance he can’t explain. He has no idea why she wanted to come.

“Are you going to ask me to dance at any point tonight?” Liv says.

Bucky jerks a thumb toward the band. “You wanna dance to this racket?”

“Don’t be such a pout, Bucky.” Her hand finds his thigh, maybe a little too high up for a church building. Her nails dig in just enough to dent the fabric of his trousers. “If anybody can make up for bad music, it’s us.”

He sighs, then pulls on a smile. “Fine, but you have to behave.”

“What are you talking about? I’m practically an angel.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll alert the Vatican.”

The song is slow when he leads her out to the dancefloor. She circles her arms around his neck and moves in close. He grips her hips, half to feel the curve of them and half to keep her a respectable distance away. Liv may think it’s all a gas, but he knows better than to think they won’t get thrown out for dancing too close.

If the priest in the corner knew half of what Bucky had been up to this week, he probably would have lit him on fire by now.

“This is ruining my charm a little, huh?” Bucky says.

Liv snorts, her thumb rubbing under his ear. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I already knew you were a golden boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean”_ —she pinches his neck— “that you’re polite even when you’re trying to get fresh with me, and that _is_ your charm. You’re a good little family boy who’s going to have about six kids one day. It’s fun to think I’m corrupting you a bit.”

“I’m not—” Bucky stares at her smooth face, his mouth open. “I don’t want _six kids,_ Jesus Christ.”

The boy and girl dancing next to them shoot dirty looks and shuffle away.

“Bucky, I’m not trying to insult you,” Liv says. “You’re a sweetpea. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

That puts a sour taste in his mouth. It reminds him of what Steve had said, how he was naive. One more person tells him that, and it’s a pattern. A fold in his brow, he looks around the room, at all these other young boys playing dress up in their daddies’ Sunday suits. “Like them?” he asks.

“Oh, no. See, you’re a sweetpea who’s not afraid of his own dick. That’s rare, babydoll.”

“ _Liv!”_ He digs his hands into her waist. “Shut it, will you?”

“You asked.” He squeezes her again, and she yelps and swats him on the neck. “Fine, fine.”

She still presses her luck, shuffling in closer to lay her head on his chest. It feels innocent enough, though, so Bucky assumes it must look that way too. He catches Becca’s eye where a boy is clumsily rotating her around the dancefloor. The look she gives him is loaded, but he just closes his eyes and lets himself shuffle inexpertly with everybody else. His thumbs rub circles into the small of Liv’s back. She’s pretty slim already, but he wonders what she’d feel like if she lost a little weight, if her bones were sharper and squarer under his hands. He thinks he’d like a girl like that.

“This is nice,” she murmurs. “Maybe we ought to do this more.”

Bucky hums, sure he means to agree, and shifts his head so her hair stops tickling his chin.

“Do you have to stay the whole time?” Liv says when the song winds down. She peels away enough to meet his eye, her breasts still pressed to him. “Or would it be okay if we went somewhere else, just the two of us?”

Bucky bites his lip; something about the way she’s asking feels different to him. He looks for his sisters. Becca is still with that boy, but Janet is sitting and looking a little forlorn. “I don’t know,” he says. “I should probably dance with Jan a while.”

“Oh,” Liv says. “Well, I don’t mind to wait.”

“The thing is, we usually go get ice cream afterward, and then walk home together…”

As he’s saying it, he realizes he’s making up excuses. There’s no real reason he couldn’t walk the girls home then turn right around to take Liv back out.

Liv notices too, and frowns at him—a real frown. “You can just tell me if you don’t want to, Bucky.”

“Sorry, it’s just…” He shrugs. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go back out, even. He thinks he might like to have a drink somewhere. But thinking about Liv, and where his night would end up with her, just makes him feel tense like he hasn’t felt since he and Steve were together. She doesn’t deserve that from him. 

“Not tonight, okay?” he says.

“Okay,” Liv says, and her face is a little sad. He hates that he put that look there but doesn’t really know what to do about it. “Well, you know how to find me. I think I’ll scram for the night.”

“I’ll walk you out?”

Just outside the door, he leans in to kiss her, just because he hasn’t all night and thinks he ought to, considering. She lets him, but doesn’t do much kissing in return.

“Tell the girls I said goodnight,” she says when he pulls away.

“Alright, Liv, thank you for coming.” He grips her shoulder, then lets her go. “Goodbye.”

It feels oddly final, when she walks away from him. Like maybe they crossed some kind of line tonight—or Bucky did, only he can’t figure out where it was.  

 

 

He does go for that drink after he takes the girls home.

It’s a lousy bar he winds up in, overcrowded and overpriced. The man behind the bar won’t give him the time of day; it’s a miracle he gets a beer in hand at all. At least the bottle is cold in his hands and tastes half-decent going down. He doesn’t know what got into him over the course of the evening—why he turned Liv down. So she called him sweet; maybe it’s true. If she were here, he might be having a good time instead of fighting for elbow room on a grimy bartop.

When the bottle is empty and paid for, he ducks outside onto the street. He should just go home, try to get some sleep. It’s getting late.

But his feet are restless, and he winds up walking toward the waterfront, thinking maybe he can circle the neighborhood and tire himself out. The bars get sparser the closer to the water he gets, each one less tempting than the last. The beer isn’t sitting well with his stomach anyway.

Bucky almost doesn’t notice him, at first. 

He looks innocuous enough where he leans against the wall, just out of the light pouring from a bar like oil onto the pavement. Bucky pauses, squinting at him.

“Steve?” he asks.

The kid steps out of the shadows, and though he’s short and pale-haired, he doesn’t look a thing like Steve in the light. His cheeks are fuller, his nose shorter, like an outline with the colors filled in wrong. Brown eyes instead of blue. His carefully plucked eyebrows and unnaturally red lips give his face a feminine look.

“You can call me Steve,” the boy says, “if that’s what you want, gorgeous.”

“No, I just—I thought you were someone else.”

The boy—the prostitute—comes closer, smiling now. He’s brazen; the front door of the bar is a slim twenty feet away. But maybe it’s one of those bars anyway. Bucky’s not sure.

“That’s okay, gorgeous. Happens all the time.”

“Does it?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe I’m not who you’re looking for, but I could make you happy that you found me.”

He’s standing awfully close now. Close enough that Bucky can smell faint perfume on him—can see where his lipstick had smudged and stained his chin; he’s tried to clean it up but pigment like that just stays. He thinks Liv has the same shade.

Bucky’s never really thought about a man as good looking, not like that. He’s told Steve he thinks he’s handsome, because it’s true, but he only ever meant it to bolster his confidence. He’d gotten hard for Steve but mostly that was the anticipation of a mouth on his dick and not anything to do with Steve and his sharp cheekbones.

But this boy—he’s good looking. The way he scans Bucky up and down, just this slight edge of nervousness about it, makes Bucky’s dick itch. For a moment he thinks about his wallet, and what he’s got left in it after the beer. A few dollars, a handful of change.

He could afford it, if he wanted it.

The boy sees him hesitating, and reaches out a hand to cup Bucky’s face. It’s goddamn bold. If he ever called something like this wrong, he’d be in trouble. That daring, more than the touch itself, sets Bucky’s spine aching. For a long minute Bucky just lets the kid linger there, stroking his cheek and murmuring something about how he could make Bucky feel so, so good. For a long minute Bucky thinks he might let him. He’s pretty, and his hands are rough.

“We’ll go somewhere quiet,” the prostitute says, “just me and you. What do you say, baby?”

It’s the name that does it. 

Bucky’s breath rattles on the way in, the messy image of Steve underneath him, purring _baby_ like he couldn’t help it. Bucky hadn’t liked it, wishes Steve would have just called him by his name, because he always likes the way Steve says his name—as if he likes the sound of it. If it hadn’t been for Steve that childhood nickname never would have stuck. If it weren’t for Steve, a lot of things would be different.

Bucky knows what he wants, and it’s not the kid in front of him.

“Thank you,” Bucky tells him, taking the kid’s hand from his cheek. “But I’ve got somewhere to be.”

The boy squints at him, then nods, his bravado wilting when he sees that Bucky means it. “Okay. Maybe next time, gorgeous.”

Bucky snorts a laugh, comprehending something new, and turns to walk in a familiar direction.

He’s only made it about two blocks when he realises Steve may not be home at all. But he may as well try anyway—can always wait for him to show, if he’s got the patience. The desperation. He thinks he might, this time.

Another two blocks, and when he turns the corner, it seems the world wants this, too.

There’s Steve, walking straight-backed up the sidewalk. He’d know the back of that head any day.

Bucky nearly trips over his toes to catch up with him. “Hey, pal,” he says, a little breathlessly.

“Look, buddy,” Steve says, not turning, “buzz off.”

“Steve, it’s me.”

When Steve turns, his face splits into an immediate, bemused smile. The portrait in right colors this time. Bucky’s eyes drop to his mouth, a habit on the verge of forming. Steve’s lips are red, too, but it’s not because of any wax. He looks a little weary at the edges, but his eyes are sharp blue as ever.

God alive, he’s handsome in this low light.

Bucky’s lungs seem to turn over and lift like balloons. He yanks in a breath, the sound harsh, and smiles back.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “What are you doing out so late?”

“Wasn’t tired. I’ve just been walking around.”

“Not with Liv?”

“What’s with you and Liv? Can’t a guy spend a little time by himself?”

Steve snorts, and jostles their shoulders together. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“You headed home, or…?”

“Yeah, I was starting in that direction.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

The city has started to quiet down around them. The dim street lights puddle on the roads, illuminating the way in bursts. Steve stays close and leans into Bucky a bit. Their wrists brush as they walk, bone to bone. Eventually Bucky gives in and slings an arm over him, knocking Steve around to be companionable about it—but he pulls him in close enough to smell the soap in his hair, and leaves his arm draped over Steve’s shoulders. Steve doesn’t seem to mind.

 

“Slow night?” Bucky asks, just making conversation.

“Hardly,” Steve says. “I’m beat.”

“Oh. That’s good, though, I’ll wager.”

“You took your sisters to that dance tonight, right?”

Bucky nods, and doesn’t mention Liv. He thinks he doesn’t like bringing her up around Steve, not anymore.

“Any fun?” Steve asks.

“Fine. Wish you could’ve come, too.”

“Well, maybe I’ll catch the next one.”

Steve’s building sprouts up on the next block. When they pause outside the door, he twists out from under Bucky’s arm and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well, unless you wanted to—”

“Steve,” Bucky says.

Steve’s brow twists at his intense expression. “Yeah?”

“I wondered,” Bucky says, “if you might have time for one more tonight.”

The sleepiness drops from Steve’s face in an instant, replaced by something cautious but intent. As Steve’s eyes roam over his face, surveying, Bucky wonders if Steve thinks he’s good looking too. He hopes he does.

“You wanna?” Steve asks.

“I do.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“You can tell me no, if you think it’s not.”

“No, it’s—” Steve nods, like he’s reassuring himself. Then he reaches for Bucky’s hand, his long fingers sliding over Bucky’s palm before wrapping it up, careful as a gift. “Okay. Come inside with me, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to let us know what you think of the art and the story so far ❤ Leave a comment or visit us on ye olde tweet time ([brideofquiet](https://twitter.com/bride_ofquiet); [alby](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_)).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind your eyeballs! This chapter features NSFW artwork.

The lock and chain seem to echo in the room. It’s not that it’s quiet—one thing Bucky has noticed about Steve’s building is that it never seems to be quiet. Shoes tapping, floorboards creaking, voices at every level and pitch all day long. He supposes it’s good, that it keeps Steve safer, but he can’t imagine how he gets any sleep. Steve’s always been a light sleeper. When they were kids he would wake at the smallest things, the radiator clanking or a dog barking, and then he’d wake Bucky up too if he couldn’t fall back to sleep and pester him till Bucky told him a story.

It’s been a long time since they’ve stayed the night together. Too long, maybe. It’d feel different now. 

When the door is closed and secured, Steve turns to face him. He has an odd look on his face—hard to read. Sometimes Steve’s thoughts are as plain on his face as newspaper headlines, and others… well, sometimes he makes Bucky certain he’d never learned how to read Steve at all.

“Sorry,” Steve says, “you’re gonna see a little of the factory process. Thought I was done for the night.”

“We don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay. I meant it when I said yes. I just wanna go wash up a bit first, if you don’t mind to wait.”

“Of course not.”

Steve smiles, faint. “Thanks. You want something to drink?”

“Oh, no.”

“C’mon. You look like you could use it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I only meant—” Steve waves a hand at him, moves in a little closer. “You seem tense. Rough night?”

Bucky shrugs, and props one hip against the counter, trying to make himself comfortable in a place he’s been dozens of times. Steve’s gaze feels too sharp on him tonight. Or maybe it’s that Bucky is just watching closer than usual.

“I’m alright,” he says.

“Hm.” Steve doesn’t seem convinced. “Alright. Here, there’s gin in the cabinet. Pour us something? I’ll go wash up, but I’d like to sit and visit with you awhile when I’m back first. That sound good?”

“Yeah, Steve, anything you want.”

When Steve disappears through the door again, Bucky sags into the counter like a sandbag with the bottom cut out. Maybe he’s too tired for this—maybe they ought not—

What? Cross a line? They’d stepped neatly over it a week ago the second Steve took Bucky’s cock into his mouth. And nothing’s changed between them, not really. There’s no reason to be nervous this time around, not when Steve has seen all of him and said yes to more. Not when Bucky wants back inside any part of Steve that will welcome him more than he can stand to think about.

So he pours two glasses of gin, neat and room temperature. There’s no ice in the tray, but Bucky doesn’t mind; it’s cheap gin, and making it cold wouldn’t make it scald any less on the way down. The biting taste wakes him up and sharpens him, so he doubles his pour and takes both glasses to the kitchen table.

It’s more of a desk right now, it seems. Steve’s things have tumbled and spread out over it like moss over a rock. He’s working on something, it looks like, an advertisement maybe. There’s a few papers with lettering sketched out and rough figures drawn below it. It’s not the kind of work Steve loves, but it’s the kind that pays decently.

Bucky shifts pages around, browsing just because he likes looking at Steve’s drawings. A drop of gin lands on one, but it’s only the edge; nothing smudges. He tries to be more careful.

His own face crops up a few times, but that’s no surprise. Steve has been capturing his likeness practically since he learned how to hold a pencil. He says Bucky has a good face for drawing—something about the angles and his expressions, whatever that means. Bucky’s never minded sitting by a window with a book in hand, listening to the scratch of Steve’s pencils.

He finds the radio somewhere in the refuse and flicks it on. A lazy tune pours out, something summery and warm, perfect for open windows and long afternoons. The afternoon’s gone and they probably ought to leave the window shut, but it’s still a nice song. Bucky takes another sip of his gin.

The door opening again pulls his eyes away from a pair staring up at him from paper.

“Hey,” Steve says. His hair is all wet. He’s just wearing an undershirt over his trousers, which makes visible all his skin that’s scrubbed sunburn pink. The traces of the long night he’s already had still linger in his face despite the washing.

The thought crosses Bucky’s mind: he almost wishes Steve hadn’t bothered to clean it all off. It startles him, thinking it—he grabs his glass again and drops his eyes to the table.

“Jumping bean,” Steve murmurs, crossing to the table. He drags the chair out with a foot and takes a seat. “How’s the gin?”

“Awful.”

“Yeah, well. One day I’ll buy you nice things, Buck, but not today.”

Bucky lifts his gaze to Steve’s, grinning. “Oh yeah? You sweet on me or something, Rogers?”

“Sweet as salt, maybe.”

Their feet connect under the table, going for kicks at the same time. That just sends them hissing into laughter, and it feels good—normal. Steve picks up his glass, Bucky laces their ankles together, and everything’s fine between them.

“Hey,” Bucky says, “you don’t think I’m sweet, do you?”

Steve cocks his head. “What? Do I think you’re—”

“Sweet.”

“I heard you, I’m just trying to make sense of what you’re asking.” Steve rubs his thumb at the corner of his mouth, his thinking face on. “D’you mean do I think you’re kind?”

“No.  _ Sweet. _ There’s a difference.”

“I dunno, I guess I’ve never thought about you like that.”

“Well, how do you think of me?”

Steve lets a gust of a breath out. “That’s a hell of a question, pal. I think about you a lot of ways, you’re my best friend. Why are you asking? Liv say something to you?”

“Why would you think—” Steve always finds the heart of things so quickly; it’s damn annoying. “Yeah.”

“Oh. You two break it off? Is that why you’re here?”

Bucky sets his hand flat to the table. “This has got nothin to do with Liv.”

Steve holds up his palms, conciliatory, but his eyes stay narrowed in question even as he says, “Fine.”

The song on the radio tapers out, and a news bulletin cuts in. It’s nothing important, so far as Bucky can tell—a weather broadcast of thunderstorms for tomorrow. Steve always says he can feel the pressure changing in his joints. Bucky wonders if he feels it now. Watching Steve stare down into his glass, he thinks about asking him another question, point blank:  _ Do you think I’m handsome?  _ But the answer, out of Steve’s mouth, doesn’t really matter either. He just wonders about it sometimes now, knowing Steve’s queer.

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky says.

Steve glances up. “Shoot.”

“You ever sleep with a man that wasn’t paying you? Besides me, I mean, I don’t count.”

Steve squints at him, suspicious, but whatever he’s searching Bucky’s face for, he must not find. His brow smooths and he says, “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Bucky shouldn’t be surprised, but he is somehow. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah, just—I’m happy for you.”

Steve snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

Bucky clangs their ankles together, harder than he means to; Steve winces. “Don’t be rude when I’m trying to be nice to you, you corncob. I just mean I’m glad somebody appreciates you enough to want you like that.” 

“Hmm.” Steve considers him over the edge of his glass. It’s nearly empty, and his eyes have gone a little hazy the way he gets when he drinks without anything in his stomach. “Yeah, I see why girls like you. You’re gonna make a good husband someday.”

That comment hurts Bucky’s teeth. “Why do you say that?”

“‘Cause I mean it.”

“Who says I’m gonna get married?”

Steve levels a dry look at him, like it’s obvious.

“What, are you gonna get married?”

Steve shrugs. “Someday, maybe.”

“But you’re queer.”

“Plenty of queer men get married, Buck. Half the men that bend me over that bed in there are wearing wedding rings, or will be someday.”

“How do you know that? If they’re queer—”

“Men get married, Buck, Jesus H. Your rose-colored glasses are endearing, but sometimes I wanna break them over my knee, you know that?”

“Hey,” Bucky says sharply. He sets his empty glass down; its bottom thumps against the wood. “I know how the world works.”

“Look,” Steve sighs, and slides his own glass toward Bucky’s till they clink together on the table. “It’s not like I don’t agree with you. You know better than anyone I’m the same way about… well, a lot of things. But just because something  _ should _ be one way doesn’t mean we can ignore how it  _ is, _ right? Even if we want to. ‘Cause if we ignore how it is, we’re never gonna be able to change it.”

“So you’re gonna get married because society says you should. That doesn’t sound like the Steve I know.”

Steve squints at him. “No,” he says slowly, “I’ll get married if I find a woman that’ll have me.”

“Okay, sure, but isn’t that kind of cruel?”

“Bucky. I like women too. You know that’s possible, right?”

Bucky’s mouth falls open on an inhale, but at the risk of getting called ignorant again, he snaps it shut just as fast. He supposes maybe he had known that, or wondered about it at some point. He thinks about a lot of things. Someone upstairs drags a chair across the floor, and the vibration resonates through the ceiling, making the light fixture twitch.

In truth he hadn’t known that was possible at all. In truth—if you like men, you like men. If it’s women, then it’s women. Anything else seems over-complicated.

But maybe it’s like how fairies dress and walk and talk as women but are really men. People can be more than one thing at a time; everyone has layers and levels. Maybe the complication is all natural and normal.

The world seems too big to Bucky, sometimes.

He wonders if Steve has had a haircut, and if that’s why he looks damn handsome tonight.

“Buck?” Steve says.

Bucky runs a hand over the back of his neck, squeezing tension out. “Sorry,” he says, looking up at Steve with a smile. “You know how my brain gets when I’m getting tired.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Another drink?”

Steve’s eyes drop to their glasses. “It’s getting late.”

“That a no?”

“It’s only—well, if you wanna get what you came up here for, we should get to it.”

“Right,” he breathes. He hadn’t forgotten, not really, but it’s easy to get sidetracked with Steve. They rove all over the place. “Okay, we’ll—?”

He points a questioning finger toward Steve’s bedroom. Steve glances over his shoulder, like he wants to be sure the bed hasn’t flown into space sometime in the last ten minutes.

“Yeah,” he says, nudging Bucky’s ankle. “We’ll.”

They get up from the table together, pushing their chairs in and shuffling around one another. The start is more awkward than last time—it’s hard not to touch in Steve’s shoebox kitchen, but with where they’re headed, a bump of the hips feels less than casual. When does the switch flip, from two friends to something else? What’s the something?

Steve turns, backing through the archway, his eyes on Bucky. It’s not a neutral look. He reaches the lamp, flicks it on, and the light catches on the movement of his throat when he swallows.

Bucky closes the curtain, and then it’s just the two of them in this room again.

“So,” Steve says, drawing back toward him, “what do you want this time?”

“What’s on offer?”

“Honestly? I don’t know if I have it in me tonight for the full service you got last time.”

“That’s okay. I caught you late, I know.”

“How about you pick one.”

Bucky chews his lip, watching Steve watch him. His eyes could melt wax. It’s that, that look, that changes it—the space between them going warm and bright like candles lit. A faint shiver rolls down Bucky’s spine as if it, too, might turn molten. 

All Bucky wants is to get his hands on him.

“I wanna put it in you again,” he says.

Steve’s lip twitches. “Put what where, baby?”

“I wanna put my cock in your ass and fuck you till you come.”

It hits the room like hot oven air. Steve’s face pinks, his mouth open around an inhale. “That’s better,” he says, voice low. “Clear direction—I like that.”

“Do you?”

“Come here.” 

The distance is easy to close with three broad steps. As soon as Bucky is in range, Steve reaches for him. He’s efficient with buttons, hurried without being hasty. The tired light in his eyes has all but vanished, Bucky’s close enough to see. He stretches a hand up and cards it through Steve’s hair. It’s mostly dry now, just a few wet spots close to his scalp.

“Lemme take this off you,” Steve says softly, pushing at the collar of Bucky’s shirt. Steve’s fingers on his neck are like little pinpricks of heat.

“Okay.” 

And then his shirt’s off, and Steve’s hands coast down his chest like he can’t help but feel him. Bucky’s lungs fill under his touch. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but looking at Steve this close makes his heart gallop. It’s funny how his freckles always come back in the same pattern, year after year.

Bucky wants to give something back, make this a dialogue. He plucks at the hem of Steve’s undershirt and slides a hand under to press his palm to Steve’s stomach. Steve freezes like it’s a surprise. Bucky tries to press some warmth and movement back into him, using both hands now to ruck Steve’s shirt up till the air hits his nipples.

“What are you doing?” Steve murmurs.

“Helping you undress.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I want to.”

For a beat, that almost makes it worse. Steve’s face contracts around a frown. Bucky slides his thumbs over Steve’s ribs and hums a wordless question. It takes a few long, loaded seconds, but then he starts to unstick. All at once, the hesitation sloughs off Steve’s face and leaves behind something determined. He finds Bucky’s belt and works it off, pausing to let Bucky slide his shirt over his head. They make quick work of each other, too eager now to linger. Soon they’re bare, and Steve is pushing Bucky toward the bed with his jaw set.

“Hey—“ Bucky starts when the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Momentum keeps him going; the springs squeak out a gentle warning.

Steve follows after, perching beside him on the bed, his hands already drifting toward Bucky’s hips. “What?” he asks.

“I mean it.”

“Mean what?”

“About you—I want you to come.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, smirking, “and you’re gonna make me, huh?”

Bucky takes him by the jaw, not hard but solid, and makes Steve look him in the eye. His cheek is the slightest bit rough under Bucky’s fingertips. A long day.

“I am,” he tells him. “I’m good at it.”

“Sure, baby.”

That name again. He holds him tighter. “Anybody ever licked you?”

“What?”

“Before, or after. Your hole—anyone ever put their tongue on you right there? I could do that for you. I want to.”

The words sound filthy but they’re the only ones that will do. Steve grabs his wrist. He doesn’t pull Bucky’s hand away but it’s a clear reprimand; Bucky loosens his grip, just caressing him now. 

“Why?” Steve asks.

“I’m good at it. I like it.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Because I wanna make you feel good, too.”

When Steve’s mouth hangs open, Bucky can smell the gin lingering on his breath. He wonders if Steve still feels the alcohol churning in his head—if that’s even what’s making Bucky’s head spin, or if it’s something else. 

“After,” Steve says. He slides a hand down and takes Bucky by the cock. “Maybe.”

His dry palm is all rough friction. Bucky seizes up under his quick touch, his fingers sliding from Steve’s face to grip his shoulder for something to hang on to. Steve’s good with his hands, always has been, and this proves no different. Bucky’s toes curl; his head drops; what feels like all the blood in his body pours into his dick and makes it stiff in Steve’s grasp.

“Hell, Steve.”

“Good?”

Bucky doesn’t bother answering, just drags Steve closer to him and tries not to buck his hips too much. He presses his face to Steve’s neck, mouth open. When Steve flicks his thumbnail over Bucky’s cockhead, Bucky gasps and squirms and slings both arms around him. Steve is practically in his lap by now. His pulse is steady and loud under Bucky’s mouth. Bucky likes the sound, wants to make it faster, so he puts his tongue to Steve’s neck and licks.

“Don’t need you to demonstrate, I believe you,” Steve says.

“Not trying to demonstr—shit,  _ shit, _ Steve, kiss me.”

He laves up Steve’s neck, along his jaw and aiming higher. But before he makes it there, Steve grabs him by the hair and yanks his head back. Pain sparks harsh in his scalp.

“Don’t,” Steve says. He’s not angry—not yet.

“Why?”

“I don’t do that.”

“What, kiss?”

“Not—like this. Some things I gotta keep for myself.”

Bucky can’t help it; his eyes still drop to Steve’s lips. He doesn’t mean anything by wanting to kiss him, he doesn’t think. It’s only that he thinks Steve’s mouth deserves something nice. And that’s how it usually works, when you’re about to screw somebody—you kiss them.

Or maybe he does mean something. It doesn’t matter right now.

“It’s just me,” Bucky says.

Steve’s grip on his hair tightens, sparks lighting up his scalp again, and then he lets him go. “It’d be too easy to break my rules, because it’s  _ just you. _ Don’t ask me to.”

His eyes are blue flame, burning Bucky down. “Okay.”

“Here, come on, let’s just…”

He starts to pull and push at Bucky, hauling him all the way onto the bed and pressing him flat to the surface. The pillow smells like Steve under his head. This part’s familiar, Steve climbing over him for the tin on the nightstand. The lid’s soft rattle as he unscrews it. A small paper square hits Bucky in the chest.

“Figure I can trust you to put that on yourself,” Steve says.

Bucky picks up the rubber, the package crinkling. “Yeah, ‘course.”

Steve smiles, faint, and sits up over Bucky’s hips. Two of his fingers dip into the tin and then disappear behind him. Bucky’s eyes track down his narrow body to where his legs are parted overtop of Bucky’s waist. His cock all pink and the glimpse of his knuckles behind it, between his legs—

“Come on, Buck, get that on,” he breathes.

The paper fumbles in his hands, but he gets it off and the rubber on in another minute. Steve watches him do it, his teeth dug into his lower lip, his arm still shifting where he’s touching himself in the place where Bucky will soon be. When Bucky is covered, Steve slides forward to hover over him.

“Go on, like this,” Steve says.

“You’re ready?”

“Ain’t no amateur, sugar, yeah I’m ready.”

He holds himself steady just below Steve’s body, where he can already feel him pouring heat like a faulty radiator. Steve sinks down and catches the tip of him between his cheeks. The angle doesn’t quite work—until it does,  _ it does, _ and Bucky’s inside him faster than he knows how to comprehend. Steve takes him in all at once, wholesale, like it’s easy. Maybe it is; Bucky wouldn’t know. Maybe he’s not Steve’s first of the evening, and that might make it easier. He can feel his own pulse at the base of his dick where Steve’s hole circles him snug.

When their thighs touch, Steve lets his eyes close and sighs deep in his throat. The breath ripples down his abdomen. Bucky lifts his hands and reaches, wanting to feel it if it happens again.

“God,” Steve breathes when Bucky sets his hands at his hips.

“Okay?”

“Hm? Oh—” Steve’s eyes flick open, and for a moment it’s like he’d forgotten it was Bucky below him. “Yeah, I’m okay, yeah. Feels good.”

He rocks his hips, just once, and Bucky gasps. “Does it?”

_ “Really  _ good,” Steve says, and rocks again, squeezing Bucky tight.

“I’d wondered,” Bucky murmurs. He trails his hand back, over Steve’s ass and down, his middle finger finding the place where they’re joined. Steve’s skin is hot and a little oily here, from the jelly. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Am I…” Steve’s brow pulls together, then smooths again—a flicker. “Sometimes. Not now. I mean it, Buck.”

“Yeah?”

Steve rises up, his thighs flexing with more muscle than Bucky would’ve guessed he had, and slowly lowers back down. The drag over Bucky’s cock feels so good it confuses him, making his mouth water. Steve does it again, and another time, and the little tremors in his face and the way he pinks up, forehead to thighs—that’s not something he can fake, no matter how good he is.

He likes this—likes Bucky tucked up inside him.

Steve starts to move faster, a little more urgent now. Bucky tries to be good, stay still under him, but it’s like his whole body wants in Steve. His hips twitch, then thrust in earnest, smacking into Steve on his downbeat. It pulls a whine out of him, so Bucky takes better hold of his hips and does it again.

“Fu—unh,  _ yes, _ fuck,” Steve breathes. “You go ahead and take over, that’s it.”

Steve folds over him, putting his hands flat to the mattress, just holding himself up for Bucky to fuck into again and again. His eyes are closed, his face a bare eight inches from Bucky’s. His mouth hangs open around near-constant gasps as Bucky grinds at his insides. It’d be so easy, to stretch up and kiss him—but that’d be a violation, and God knows Bucky doesn’t want this to end before it’s done.

“How’s it feel?” Bucky asks. “Am I gonna make you come?”

“Giving it the old college try, aren’t you,” Steve pants.

“What do you—mm, Steve, Jesus—what do you need?”

“Don’t worry about me. Just keep, oh, keep fucking me, it’s good, I promise.”

Bucky does, harder now because Steve had seemed to like that last time and he’d liked it too. His hands slide up Steve’s back, nails scratching at his splendid-soft skin. Steve’s gin breath wafts over his face in hot bursts. He has his eyes open now, staring at Bucky’s face, a little red-rimmed and startled. Bucky can’t look away from him. It’s too much and not enough.

He almost doesn’t notice when Steve shifts, balancing on one hand to fit the other between them. Bucky’s gaze drops to where Steve’s cock had been lying against his stomach, a strange but welcome weight. Steve grips himself, not stroking, just holding tight the way Bucky does sometimes when he’s trying to fight off too much too quickly.

“Steve,” he says, and reaches for him. Steve flinches away, sitting up, but Bucky’s hand still hovers close. “Let me, let me, I wanna touch you.”

Maybe Steve’s too blissed out to protest, or he really wants it too. Either way, he says, “Okay, just—like you would with yourself.”

“I’ve got you.”

Bucky slows his thrusts to a steady roll. His fingers curl around Steve, and it’s easy—familiar even if the angle’s different. Steve watches his hand moving, grinds his hips back onto him, and his face is glazed.

“Bucky,” he gasps, “Buck, like that, this how you touch yourself? Hell,  _ oh, _ I’m—”

He shudders, jerking hard onto Bucky’s dick, hard enough to make them both gasp. Then he comes, spilling warm and white, all over Bucky’s stomach.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes. He watches every drop pour out of him—mesmerized. It gets on his hand too, sliding down the back of his palm like poured honey.

“Sorry, I’m—I’ll get—”

“No.” Bucky grabs Steve’s thighs to make him stay put. “Don’t.”

When Bucky starts pushing into him again, Steve makes a high, wrecked noise and falls forward over him. It doesn’t take long at all. Steve breathes on his throat and clenches weakly around him, and after everything else that’s all Bucky needed to send him barreling over the cliff’s edge. It’s a beautiful freefall.

He doesn’t know how it happens but they end up side-by-side again, Steve tucked under his arm like he’d put himself there. His brain snaps back on one fuse at a time.

If last time was good, this was unchartable. The tingling, electric feeling still lingers.

“Steve?” Bucky asks softly.

Steve snuffles and moves, his hair a mess where it’s tumbling over to brush against Bucky’s neck. He snores, just the once.

Bucky laughs, careful to stay quiet enough not to wake him. It’d been late when they started—God only knows what time it is now. So instead of rattling Steve’s shoulders to get him up, Bucky just turns off the lamp and uses his toes to kick the blanket folded at the end of the bed up over them. They’re both sticky but Bucky figures they can give it a little while. 

Steve sighs, smacks his lips, and loops his skinny arm around Bucky’s ribs. Bucky falls asleep to the sound of his own too-loud heartbeat echoing in his ear pressed to the pillow.

  
  


He wakes to Steve spitting curses directly into the other ear.

“Oh, dammit. Hell. Jesus  _ in _ hell.”

Bucky’s eyelids stick together, but he gets them open. It’s still too dark in the room to make much of a difference. “Steve?”

“Hey, hey—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

Steve’s elbows catch him in the chest as he struggles his way toward the edge of the bed, Bucky’s body the roadblock in his way. The sludge in his head tells him they haven’t been asleep for more than an hour or two. He hadn’t meant to sleep either but it is what it is now—it’s the dead of night, and Bucky’s not walking home.

He finds Steve’s arm in the dark and grips it. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Bucky, we gotta—we should—”

“What? You got somewhere to be this late?”

“No, it’s… Why are you still here?”

“‘Cause you fell asleep, then I did too.”

Bucky wishes he could see his face, try to read it. Steve huffs an awful sigh and keeps fighting to get off the mattress, but Bucky holds him still.

“Quit it, Steve, just go back to sleep.”

“I  _ can’t.” _

Slowly, Bucky sits up. The lamp switch is stiff—he has to try it twice before it turns. The light hurts his eyes at first, sparking grey spots in his vision till he focuses enough. When he catches sight of Steve’s face, it’s not what he’d expected.

He doesn’t look angry, or put out. If anything he just looks worried.

“What’s wrong?’ Bucky asks.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but you should, if this was—if you were—”

“But I’m not, am I?”

A car horn blares somewhere out on the street. Steve’s head whips toward the window, where the cover’s still tight over the pane. With his head still turned he drags both hands over his face, rubbing till his skin reddens.

“No,” he says into the heels of his palms. “No, you’re not.”

“Let’s just sleep.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Unless… you’d rather I go?”

Steve lets his hands fall away, and everything else too. His eyes are so open on Bucky all of a sudden that it’s hard to look at him. Guard dropped like loose change—something Steve can’t really afford to drop, Bucky knows. But he does it anyway.

“No,” Steve tells him. “No, I’m glad you’re here. You don’t mind sharing?”

He gestures toward the bed, and Bucky shakes his head. “Never have.”

“Alright. Sorry for the…”

Steve lies back down without bothering to finish. They don’t curl together like they were before but it’s impossible not to touch on so narrow a mattress. Steve’s arms, folded in front of him, press along Bucky’s side. They’re both still naked but it doesn’t seem important now. The smell of stale sweat lingers faintly in the air.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m—” His breath lurches. “I don’t know, Buck. I’ve been better, I guess.” 

He hums softly, then stays quiet enough for dread to start pooling in Bucky’s stomach. Bucky opens his mouth, thinking he’ll just leave, but Steve beats him to it: “You know it’s coming up on two years since Ma got sick?”

_ Oh, _ Bucky thinks. The blankets twist with him as he rolls to face Steve. He reaches down to smooth them back out, patting Steve’s hip along the way. His hand idles there, stroking comfort. It’s selfish of him but he does forget—or maybe selfish is the wrong word, but it’s something bad anyway. He forgets that it hasn’t even been two full years since Steve lost his mother. Steve’s gotten so good at kicking sand over all of his hurts, even the gaping wounds, that if Bucky isn’t paying precise attention he’ll miss them. He knows that’s what Steve wants, for him not to notice, but it still makes him feel like a rotten friend.

“When’s the last time you visited her?” Bucky asks.

“It’s been…” Steve’s brow pinches. “Hell. A couple weeks? I can’t remember. Some son I am.”

“You’ve been busy. She’d understand.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Steve, you can’t—you can’t expect to visit her every week for the rest of your life. That doesn’t mean you’re forgetting her.”

“She did. With my dad, I mean. Every single week.”

An ache lodges in Bucky’s chest. “I never knew that.”

“It’s just what she did.” Steve shrugs, half-hearted. “She’s a lot to live up to.”

“Steve, hey. She was proud of you. Is, if you still believe all that.”

The sheets wrasp when Steve moves closer to him, tucking his head under Bucky’s chin like they did when they were kids and Bucky’s room still had that draft. They still fit together in so many ways. It seems almost impossible sometimes, with all the years strung out behind them, like something should have changed. Bucky’s seen a lot of childhood friends drift apart as they get older. Not them, though—theirs is a friendship built to last, fortified with something stronger.

“I’m proud of you too, you know,” Bucky says, pulling Steve against him. He supposes this is okay—it feels okay. More than.

“What for?”

“I don’t know. All of it. Just of you.”

“You’re real good to me, Buck,” Steve whispers. “I don’t know how to thank you sometimes.”

“Not asking you to.”

It’d be easy to miss it—it’s just the faintest touch. Steve’s lips brush against Bucky’s collarbone, and it could be an accident. Whether Steve meant it or not, the sensation sends warmth spooling out through Bucky’s chest.

“Steve, can I ask you something? About being queer.”

He feels Steve’s brow pull together against his neck. “Guess so. What is it?”

“I just—and look, be patient with me, okay? I’m just wondering what it means exactly. If being queer means you want to sleep with men, or if there’s more to it than that. Do men have feelings for each other like a man and a woman, or is it just about sex?”

“Lord, Buck.” Steve twists away just enough to meet his eye. “What’s this about?”

“I want to know.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, dubiously. But he continues anyway. “So I’d say it depends on the person—but yes to the first, in general. Me, for instance. I like to look at men and I think about sleeping with them, but I also think about just being with them. Spending time together, enjoying each other’s company. I guess that’s  _ feelings.” _

“Have you ever? Had feelings for a man?”

Steve turns onto his back, leaving Bucky’s arm splayed across his chest. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” A weird feeling sinks in Bucky’s gut. “Who? Somebody I know?”

“Seems it’d be kind of rude to say, if you did know him.”

It’s jealousy, Bucky realizes. “Huh. Guess that’s true.”

“Anyways, cut off the lamp. We ought to sleep.”

“How did you know?”

“Know wh—oh, Buck, come on.”

“What?”

Bucky feels it beneath him when Steve drags in a big breath and lets it out just as huge. “You just like sex, Bucky. You’re not queer just ‘cause you slept with me.”

“And I guess you have all the answers, huh?”

Every place their skin touches feels too hot now. Bucky wants to get up, put some space between them, but somehow that’d feel like losing the argument. Is this an argument? It must be, with the frown Steve’s wearing, staring up at the ceiling like it said something nasty to him.

“I’d know if you were queer,” Steve says.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I know you, and I’d  _ know. _ You just aren’t.”

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky says, “you can be really arrogant sometimes. Makes me wanna smack you.”

“Then do it. ‘S’not gonna change anything.”

“What would?” Bucky rises on an elbow, propping himself over Steve. His body blocks the lamplight, throwing shadows over Steve. He still looks pretty somehow, tired and sweaty and upset. “What if I told you I haven’t stopped thinking about wanting to kiss you?”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Come on. Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not—Steve, I mean it. I want to kiss you.”

“Are you just trying to prove a point?”

“Not everything’s about  _ points, _ Steve. When I was inside you I thought my heart was gonna give out, and not in the bad way—I’ve never felt that with anyone else before. So I want to kiss you, because it’d feel nice and that’s what I like to do when I feel something for somebody.”

It all just tumbles out of him in a tangle, right there into the air between them. Things like that can’t be unsaid.

“Bucky,” Steve says. It’s a warning; Bucky chooses not to heed it.

“I’m not kidding around here, Steve. I want you.”

“Yeah, okay—I believe that you want to sleep with me. But the rest of that’s just your hormones talking, Buck, it isn’t real. Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Can you lie there and tell me you have absolutely zero feelings for Liv?”

“What’s that got to do with—”

“Just answer the question.”

Bucky sighs and drops his head. “I don’t know. I guess I liked her, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

“Okay, see. You sleep with somebody, you get feelings for them. It’s the same thing happening here. You don’t really like me, you just like fucking me.”

He sounds so sure, like it’s indisputable fact—fleshed out in science. His voice makes Bucky’s conviction waiver. It would be a hell of a lot easier if Steve were right. They wouldn’t have to sort through all this to see what parts of their friendship could remain intact, and Bucky wouldn’t have to learn what it’s like to live in the world as somebody the world doesn’t want.

Maybe Steve is right.

He must see something change on Bucky’s face, because he reaches out a hand for Bucky’s shoulder. “Hey, look. It’s okay. You’re not the first man to say something like this to me.”

“I’m not?”

“No. There’s been a few, and they’re all happier for having been set straight.”

It isn’t a comfort, somehow. “Steve…”

“Let’s just sleep on it, alright? You still want to spout grand epiphanies in the morning, I’ll listen, but for now I’m tired.” 

“Okay. Sleep, sure.”

Suddenly Bucky feels every faulty spring in the mattress when he lies back down. Steve rolls over, his back to Bucky, and when the light goes out it’s hard to say which one of them falls asleep first.

There are no more epiphanies in the morning. Bucky had forgotten about church services, so he has to hurry out and get home in time to pull his suit on. Steve’s still sleeping when he shuts the door behind himself.

It’s in the middle of the Lord’s Prayer that he remembers: he’d forgotten all about where else he wanted to kiss Steve.


	7. Chapter 7

“You’re all antsy again,” Becca says.

Bucky cracks one eye open to squint into the sunlight. It’s a pleasant day. The summer’s offered a brief respite, and every last soul in Brooklyn has poured into Prospect Park to soak up the mild day like maybe if they all just show their support, the sun will learn people prefer not to be scalded. The Barnes family is no different; after services let out, Bucky’s ma told him to bring the girls down while she and his father took care of some errands. Lord knows what kind of errands they need to run on a Sunday, but Bucky had agreed, and here they are.

He’d been trying to have a nap in the grass of the Long Meadow. It had been going poorly, but he thought he at least  _ looked _ relaxed.

Becca’s head appears in his eyeline, blotting out the sun. “Bucky.”

“What?” he grunts.

“You keep fidgeting. Are there ants in your pants?”

“Bucky has ants in his pants?” Rose calls, from where she was making daisy chains a dozen feet away.

“No, Rose, it’s a figure of speech,” Becca says. “Keep working, or don’t you want to bring those home?”

Bucky sighs and opens his other eye. Apparently that nap isn’t going to happen. He props himself up on elbows so he doesn’t have to strain his eyes looking at Becca perched next to him. They ought to have brought a blanket; her Sunday dress will get grass stains sitting like this. Rose is already in a poor state sprawled out picking clovers and flowers, but there’s really no stopping that girl. 

Janet wandered off a while ago to take a stroll around the meadow. If she doesn’t show soon, Bucky will have to go look for her.

“What are you trying to ask me?” Bucky asks, twisting to look up at Becca.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It just seems like you’ve been in a sour mood all summer, and I wanted to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Oh. Becks, geez. You’re a real sweetie, you know that?” 

She smiles and flicks a piece of grass at his face. It gets caught on his lip, and he has to fuss a second to get it off.

“All summer?” he asks. “Really?”

“Off and on, I guess.”

“Huh.” He thinks there’ve been a few bright spots, himself.

“So what’s been bothering you?”

His back’s starting to get a little damp with the grass. He sits up, draping his elbows over bent knees. Nowhere in Brooklyn is all that quiet, especially the park on a Sunday afternoon. Clusters of people dot the meadow, lounging just like them.

“Nothing in particular.” He glances left to find Becca staring at him with an expression that looks entirely too much like their mother’s. “Honest, Becca, I’m alright.”

“Where did you go last night?”

“Out.”

“But Liv left. I saw you walk her out.”

“I know people besides Liv.”

“So who were you with?”

“Steve.”

“Oh.” It sounds like  _ duh.  _ “You stayed with him last night, then.”

She doesn’t pose it as a question, and for a moment, Bucky’s heart takes off like a startled goose. He whips his head around to stare at her, thinking how the hell could she know a damn thing about it—

But she just looks back at him with wide, innocent eyes, because of course it’s a perfectly innocent assumption that Bucky would just stay with Steve if they were out too late. His sister doesn’t know a thing. It’s not like she can smell Steve on him.

Bucky wishes  _ he _ could still smell Steve on him. That’s not a thought for this meadow, though—but maybe it is conversationally relevant somehow. There are exactly two things that have been stuck like splinters in his toes all summer: his job, which he doesn’t really like to think about; and Steve, who he has not been able to  _ stop _ thinking about.

It’s not as though he can ask Becca’s advice in this situation.  _ Hey sweetie, looks like I went and fucked my best friend a couple times and now I might have feelings for him, or maybe it’s just my dick talking like he seems to think. What should I do? _

And maybe that’s part of the problem—that the only person he could conceivably talk to about this is directly involved and therefore no help. He’d tried that last night; it hadn’t gone well. He’s still got a crick in his neck from trying to keep a respectable distance from Steve on the bed when all he’d really wanted to do was wrap him up and hold him close enough to feel him breathing.

The thing was, Steve probably would have let him, because Bucky wasn’t the first guy to get hung up like a wrung-out towel over Steve’s tight ass, apparently.

“You’re a real space cadet lately, Bucky,” Becca says. This time she flicks him directly, right on the temple, hard enough that he startles. He nearly sprawls sideways into the grass.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Don’t mean to be.”

“It’s okay. I’m just worried about you.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one that worries about you? Huh?”

Becca’s face turns soft, a sad little smile cut across the middle. “It’s not an either-or equation, is it?”

“Well, I’m the oldest.”

“I’m seventeen now.”

“What, and that means you’re all shiny and sparkles? That you’re too old for me to fret over you anymore?” Christ, everybody wants to take care of themselves these days. Bucky’s no better, but at least he’s got real reasons.

“No,” Becca says, “just that I’m not a baby, and neither is Janet.”

“So you don’t need me anymore.”

_ “No, _ Jesus, you’re so ornery sometimes.”

It’s the blaspheming that makes him shut up; he’s never heard a harsh word out of Becca’s mouth before. She seems to realize what she’s said and puts a hand on his shoulder, like she wants to soften it.

“I just mean,” she sighs, “that you don’t have to try to be Papa, alright?”

Bucky’s never called him that; George Barnes has always been “father” or “sir,” or more often nothing at all, to him. The girls tried harder than he did. It broke his heart to see them tossing themselves toward a shoreline they were never gonna find, so maybe sometime along the way Bucky had tried to step into their father’s shoes for them. Someone had to do it. Better it be Bucky, even if he was only a handful of years older than Becca and Jan. Rose was easier; he was old enough to know what he was doing by the time she came around.

“I don’t really know what you mean,” he says. “Who else should I be?”

Becca squeezes his shoulder. “How about my brother?”

She makes it sound so easy. 

Maybe it is. This family will always be his responsibility, because it’s his, but he sees what she’s trying to tell him. He thinks maybe he ought to feel hurt, but in a way he feels relieved.

“Have you talked to Ma about any of this?”

Becca’s smile tightens. “She’s the one who asked me to talk to you.”

“Hell. You’re all a buncha gossips.”

But he slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in for a hug. They sit there like that, brother and sister, till Janet returns and Rosie drapes them all in daisy chains.

  
  


Steve shows up on Bucky’s lunch hour later in the week, brown paper sack of sandwiches in hand. It’s been a long, long time since he’s brought Bucky lunch.

“Hi,” he says, a little meek. They haven’t spoken since Bucky ran out on him the other morning; this is probably meant as some kind of peace offering.

Bucky reaches for the bag, peering inside when Steve hands it over. “What’s cooking at the Rogers Deli today?”

“Just some chicken and tomato sandwiches. Extra mustard on yours.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up to him, a smile on his face despite himself. Steve looks gorgeous when he’s a little nervous like this—though God knows why he’s the timid one between them right now. 

“You know me pretty well, huh?” Bucky says.

“It’s only a sandwich, Buck.” Steve rolls his eyes, but he looks warm around the edges, like he’s happy to see Bucky too.

They go for a stroll because the weather’s stayed mild this week, eating their lunch on the go. It’s the good, spicy mustard Bucky loves so much. He wants to sling an arm around Steve’s shoulders, walk close to him as he can, but his hands are full of sandwich and then he thinks maybe it’s best if he doesn’t. They’re both in good humor; it’d be a shame to make things awkward by reminding them of what Bucky had tried to confess to.

He tells Steve about his talk with Becca, instead.

“So,” Steve says, “are you thinking about getting a place of your own then?”

“I dunno. I mean I’ve thought about it before, but not seriously.”

“Well, maybe you should. I know how much your family means to you, but I think it’d be good for you.”

Bucky glances at him, where the sunshine’s catching in his hair. “I’d ask if you had a room to spare, but…”

Steve huffs. “Yeah, that’d be a little complicated, given—well.”

“We could figure it out.”

The shade of a maple tree envelops them, and Steve stops in its cover to face him. “Is this you asking?”

Bucky pauses with him. He swipes a thumb at the corner of his mouth where he still tastes the mustard. “I mean,” he says, “I guess so. Would you want that?”

“I—”  Steve squints at him; seems a little taken aback. “Would  _ you _ want that?”

“Why, ‘cause of what I said the other day?”

“I told you, that wasn’t—you’re—” Steve’s breath rushes out, then back in. “I just figured, that’s a lot of me to commit to, you know?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, and he can’t help but clap a hand to his shoulder, “pal, I tried to get you to move in with me two years ago. This is no new idea for me.”

“That was with your family, though. That’s different.”

“If you say so, but I don’t see how.”

“I’ll… Look, I’ll think about it, okay?”

It’s not a clean rejection, not like Saturday, so Bucky takes it with a grin. He squeezes Steve’s shoulder; it’s a thrill to touch him. “Of course.”

  
  


The thing is—

Well, it’s like this: Steve is right a lot of the time, and he knows it, which occasionally gets on Bucky’s everloving nerves. But mostly he knows Steve is right, too.

Sometimes, though, Steve is dead wrong. Only Steve rarely sees that.

Bucky hasn’t stopped thinking about what it’d be like to kiss him all week. He wonders what Steve kisses like—if he has technique or if he’s all momentum. Steve is probably a rough kisser, a little brutal like the rest of him. Or maybe he’s softer with his mouth than he is with anything else. Maybe he likes to kiss slow and for a long time, deep and warm. Bucky wants to kiss him all over,  _ all over, _ make him feel good the way he makes Bucky feel like nothing could be better than Steve on him, around him.

It drives Bucky crazy as hell to think about. He takes more showers than he needs to just for a place where his family’s less likely to barge in on him.

But there’s another thing, too.

Looking back on it—Bucky decides this isn’t new. It’s been like slotting those final few pieces of the puzzle together that finally make the picture whole. He’s been watching Steve hawk-like close for half his life. He’d just thought—well, no. He hadn’t thought about it, and that’s been the problem.

And of course Steve wouldn’t think he’s queer, because Bucky has only ever had eyes for him.

But he thinks he must be, because Steve did have something right. Bucky likes looking at him and thinking about the sex they’ve had and could have—but he also just likes spending time with him. Being with him. How Steve can make him laugh like nobody else and knows when it’s best not to try. How he’d probably let Steve recite the entire encyclopedia article for medieval carrot farming and never get bored listening to him.

That’s  _ feelings, _ like Steve said.

And it’s terrifying to realize. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Steve doesn’t believe him.

Maybe it doesn’t really matter, though. Steve sleeps with him willingly and wants to see him all the time, and so what if they don’t kiss? If it means something different to Steve? It could be enough. It could be.

It wouldn’t be, but Bucky doesn’t know that he’s got a whole lot of other options.

Now that he’s thinking about it, maybe they ought not sleep together again if this is how Bucky really feels. That would be taking advantage of Steve—worse than Bucky already has. Steve doesn’t seem to mind his body being used, but the rest of him… That’s sacred. He’d said so himself; there are some things he likes to keep separate.

So maybe Bucky should just try to forget all about it. Given the last few days—weeks, months—he knows that’s not possible, though. About as possible as him giving up Steve’s friendship.

It occurs to him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling and wishing it were Steve’s water-stained walls he was looking at instead, that he might just need to convince Steve he’s wrong. Nigh on impossible a task—but if he can make Steve see that he  _ does _ mean it, he’s queer as fireworks and all for Steve, then… Well, could be Steve just doesn’t feel anything back for him. He thinks he could live with that. It’s the not knowing that will eat him alive.

He’ll have to tell him. He doesn’t know when or where or how—but he has to. It can’t go on like this; it’s dishonest. There’s nothing that would make Steve hate his guts more than pretending. Even if Steve turns him down, at least Bucky can keep his respect by having told him honestly.

  
  


Bucky’s on a smoke break outside the factory, winding down toward lunch hour, when up walks a very familiar pair of legs. He nearly drops his lit cigarette on his toes.

“Hi, Bucky,” Liv says. Her smile’s the same, but he thinks her eyes seem a little wary of him.

“Uh,” he says, “hey, Liv.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. How you been?”

Her mouth twitches downward. “Fine, too. I’m just bringing Hank some lunch.”

A door opens and shuts somewhere deeper in the building. Bucky had nearly forgotten that Liv is the sister of a man he works with—he and Hank don’t talk much. Or get along particularly well, for that matter. Hank and Liv couldn’t be more night and day.

“Well, anyway,” Liv says, holding up a lunch tin with “McClellan” etched into the side.

“Hey.” Bucky steps toward her, because he’s feeling too forthright for his own good this week. “I’m sorry about the other night. If I did something wrong.”

“Bucky.” She shakes her head, curls dancing. “It’s my own fault. You and I—we were just having fun. I knew that.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“You... Bucky, I grew a little too fond of you.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks.  _ “Oh. _ Shit.”

Liv shrugs. “Like I said, I walked myself into it. Not your fault, angel, but thank you for apologizing anyway.”

Her smile is still in place, but it’s gone a little wan. Bucky feels like he ought to say something else, but he can’t decide what that is. He has his mouth open to fumble through some niceties when Hank strolls out through the door.

“Thanks, Olivia,” he says—then he sees her face, and his brow drops. His eyes flick to Bucky. “What are you doing out here with a crumb like Barnes, huh?”

“Uh—” Bucky says. He’s not sure Liv ever told her brother they were seeing each other, now that he thinks about it. Bucky certainly hadn’t said anything.

“Nothing, Hank, just saying hello to Bucky.”

“How do you know him?”

Liv huffs and waves a manicured hand in the air. “We’ve—seen each other around.”

“What do you mean, around? Why do you look sad?”

“Who says she looks—” Bucky starts, but Hank whirls on him. God, Bucky had forgotten about his damn awful temper.

“Am I talking to you?” He pokes a finger in Bucky’s chest, then decides he  _ is _ in fact talking to Bucky. “You say something to upset my sister, Barnes?”

“Hank, leave him alone.”

“Did he break your heart?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Bucky sighs, and that’s the wrong thing to say. Or maybe it’s not the words themselves, but the fact that he spoke at all. Hanks fists his hand in Bucky’s shirt and shoves him into the brick wall. “Hey, what the hell—”

“Hank—”

“How long you been going steady with my sister, Barnes? You didn’t think to ask me first?”

Liv grabs at her brother’s arm. Bucky knows better than to throw the first punch, though he’s fairly certain he’s going to get decked sometime in the next sixty seconds. For now he just tries to keep his feet under him while Hank yanks him around like he’s not sure which brick, exactly, he wants to put Bucky’s head through. The sun out here is disorientingly bright.

“He didn’t need to  _ ask you, _ Hank. And we weren’t even going steady!”

“Then how’d he break your heart?”

“Not that you’d know, McClellan,” Bucky says, because he can’t help himself, “but there’s more than a couple ways to do it.”

And that does it. The vein in Hank’s forehead nearly bursts right there.

Bucky ducks enough that Hank’s fist just clips his temple, but it still sends blood pumping into a quick-forming bruise. He gets Hank’s hands off him and throws a punch of his own—a lot more direct. His knuckles collide with Hank’s cheek and send his head sideways.

That’s about as far as things get before a head of blond hair appears in the thick of it. For an instant Bucky thinks it’s Liv, throwing herself between them, before he hears the unholy snarl of breath that is Steve Rogers winding up a punch.

_ “Steve, _ what the hell, get outta here—”

While Bucky's trying to push Steve out of the way and keeping an eye on Liv, who’s shrunk back toward the door, McClellan lands a couple clean hits on him. He’s built like a sack of bricks, so despite having no particular skill, his fists land heavy and hard. Bucky feels his lip split and the blood start pooling in his mouth. Steve screeches like a cat on fire somewhere off to the side.

“Barnes, McClellan, cut it out right now!”

The voice of the foreman is too loud to mistake. Bucky freezes with his hands fisted in Hank’s shirt. Shame rips through him in an instant—he hadn’t started this fight but he damn well ought to have ended it already.

“What in Christ’s name do the two of you think you’re doing? Fighting like rotten kids right outside my damn factory.”

“Sir—” Bucky starts.

“I don’t want to hear it from you, Barnes. McClellan, what happened?”

“You see, sir, Barnes was making some rude comments about my sister—”

“That’s  _ not _ what happened,” Steve cuts in.

“Who is this?” the foreman asks, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want an answer. “Shut your mouth, boy, or I’ll call the police.”

Steve clams up, but he looks furious about it. His face is redder than a boiled lobster.

“Barnes, pack it in. You’re done here.”

“I’m—” Bucky’s stomach drops. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t have you starting fights on my lot. You’re fired. Scram.”

The heat’s practically rolling off Steve where he stands cross-armed beside Bucky. Bucky can feel himself sputtering, but nothing’s forthcoming. The foreman has never once liked him, and no amount of hollering how it’s not fair is going to change that or make this any better.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry,” Liv says. She’s not crying but it looks like a near thing—and that, more than anything, might be the real shame in all this.

“Like you told me,” Bucky says, “‘s’not your fault.” 

He spits blood on the pavement, grabs Steve by the elbow, and starts walking away. To hell with the rest of it.

  
  


They fume together all the way home—to Bucky’s—and through the door. No one else is here, praise whatever’s holy. As soon as the door shuts and locks, Bucky leans back against it and puts a palm to his aching forehead. He’s exhausted.

Steve has no such problem. Fights always dial his energy up to about twenty-six.

“I cannot believe your boss would just—without even asking for your side—”

“Steve,” Bucky says softly.

“Or I guess I can, with what you’ve told me about him, but it’s just not  _ fair, _ Buck.” 

“What were you even doing there? Are you hurt?”

Steve waves him off, like it’s unimportant. “How could you just let him do that to you? Without a word?”

“Oh, Jesus. Shouldn’t you know better than anybody by now the world’s not fair? At least that’s what you keep telling me.”

Steve halts in the middle of pacing the parlor room, turning sharp eyes toward Bucky. “You still could’ve fought it. That was bullshit.”

“I know,” Bucky sighs. “I didn’t really wanna, though.”

“You—what?”

His shoulders roll, working out tension. “Just… I don’t know. I’m tired of letting people demean me while I’m just trying to do my job, you know?”

“Oh.” Steve’s brows pull together. He takes a step closer. “Yeah, Buck. I—I get it. You can’t let anybody disrespect you.”

Even a small smile hurts Bucky's face, but he gives Steve one anyway, because he deserves it. “Learned a lot from you over the years, pal.”

The room is quiet. Steve’s throat clicks, like he wants to fill that silence but can’t quite find any words that’ll do the job right. That’s okay. His face is enough; Bucky said something right.

Bucky thumbs toward the bathroom. “Gonna go try to clean up.”

“Let me help?” Steve asks, with his earnest eyebrows on.

“Alright,” Bucky says, “but only because I’m modeling good behavior for you.”

Steve snorts, and when he follows Bucky down the hall, he pushes at his back to get him to hurry up.

“Here, sit,” Steve tells him, pointing toward the commode. “You need ice?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Okay. Hang tight.”

His nose has mostly stopped bleeding, but his mouth still tastes like rust from the blood that had trickled into it. It’s all over his shirt, too, so he strips it off and tosses it to the floor. Down to his undershirt now, he must look a wreck. Steve’s thoughts are ahead of his, though. He reappears in the doorway with an ice compress in one hand and a damp towel in the other.

Bucky swears he feels his heart about split at the sight of him. He knows he should be focused on his bruised cranium, the fact that he just lost his job—but dammit if the blue of Steve’s shirt doesn’t make his eyes look spectacular.

“Hi,” Bucky says, a little docile—a little scared of him.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, walking over to him. He crouches in front of Bucky, knees popping audibly. “How you feeling?”

“Like I got clobbered over the head.”

“I’ll bet. Here, take this—I’ll clean you up.”

They’ve done this for each other a hundred times at least. Bucky for Steve every time his mouth landed him in hot water; Steve for Bucky back in high school, when he was still boxing. It’s been a while for both of them, though. The ice is cold against Bucky’s temple. Steve’s fingers, when they prod oh-so gently at Bucky’s nose, are only just warmer.

“Don’t think it’s broken,” he murmurs, before raising the towel to Bucky’s face. “Let me know if I’m hurting you, though.”

Steve could hurt him. Steve could hurt him bad—worse than anyone—and probably will. But not in this; his hands are gentle as he coaxes the blood from Bucky’s skin. All Bucky can do is watch his face, the way it looks so serious and focused. His mouth hangs open, tongue twisted between his teeth, like when he’s really concentrating on something.

“Gonna bite that off one day,” Bucky tells him.

Steve hums, wiping at Bucky’s neck. The cloth drags slow and warm. What if it wasn’t there, if it was Steve’s palm right against him instead— 

“Steve.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Thank you.”

“Mm. You know it’s no bother to me.”

Bucky smiles, his lips pressing into the damp cloth. “I do know.”

Steve’s mouth twitches like he understands what he’s just said. Of course he does; he isn’t stupid. Maybe next time he’s laid out and Bucky’s taking care of him, he’ll actually remember it. Not likely but it’s a nice thought.

“Think your shirt’s ruined,” Steve says. His thumbs frame Bucky’s jaw, for no particular reason that Bucky can tell. “But the rest of you’s alright. How’s your head?”

“Feeling better.”

“Good.”

“Steve, I—” He reaches for him, cups the back of his head. The compress falls to the tile floor with a clatter. His fingers stroke Steve’s scalp while he sucks in a breath so deep it hurts. He tries not to pull him closer but he wants to, so badly.

Steve leans into the touch just a little, but his face pinches. “Now’s not the best time, baby.”

“That’s not what—don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“You call everyone that, don’t you? All the others. I’m not them.”

Steve is frowning now, confused. His hands drop, but he stays crouched by Bucky’s knees. “I know you’re not.”

“Then, Steve—Steve. Believe me when I tell you—”

Steve’s expression clears, hollowed. “Stop. Stop it.”

“Why? Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because it’s—because you’re not—” Steve squeezes the towel in his hand so hard the excess water drips onto the floor. “Hell.  _ Hell, _ what are you doing, Bucky? What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

Steve is standing now, but the washroom’s too small to put any real space between them. Their voices echo faintly off the tile, too loud in here. Steve’s face is screwed up tight, something awful. He looks sad and angry in a way Bucky knows he must have been feeling a lot these last two years but that he’s rarely let Bucky see. The towel hits the tub with a wet splatter.

“You’re the one thing. The only damn thing I still have and what are you doing?” His voice cracks; he bites his tongue so hard he winces. “What kind of game are you playing, telling me shit like that? It’s not funny, it’s real low, I can’t believe you would…”

“Steve. Steve, come on, you don’t really think that I—”

He can see it, the way it tears through Steve’s expression, that no—Steve doesn’t believe that. He’s grasping at straws.

“I never should’ve slept with you,” Steve breathes. “This would all be… What the hell was I thinking? Why’d you have to ask me that?”

And maybe Steve is right. In fact Bucky’s sure that he is—if they hadn’t gotten naked together they wouldn’t be in this mess right now. But they did, and they are. And if Bucky is sure of anything else it’s that it would have happened eventually. He has to believe that—that he would have realized. It doesn’t matter, none of the hypotheticals matter, but there’s no version of history where he doesn’t look Steve Rogers in the face one day and think  _ I never want anybody else.  _ It’s a fact. There’s never been anything truer.

“Because I wanted you,” he says. “You, Steve,  _ you. _ I want you—”

“I can’t do this,” Steve cuts over him. “Hell, Bucky, you ruined us. I can’t…”

The soles of his shoes pound heavy against the tile as he turns tail and flees the room. Bucky tears after him, thinking he can’t let this lie again, can’t let another argument fester. This feels greater than an argument but he can’t think of any other word for it. Life-threatening. He catches Steve in the hall, grabs him by the shoulder and drags him back from the door.

“Get your hands the hell off me,” Steve yells.

“No. Steve, look at me, dammit just  _ look at me _ a minute, please!”

Steve spins to face him, a pot about to boil over. He stares Bucky down, waiting for something. Bucky waits too, waiting out his anger—for anything at all to give. Maybe it won’t, but he has to hope. 

Steve’s chest heaves. His eyes flick from Bucky’s face to the hand still gripping his shoulder hard, back again, in circles.

It’s when his eyes drop to Bucky’s mouth, once and then again—unmistakable—that Bucky feels the tug in his gut. He crowds forward, into Steve’s space. His hammering pulse is visible in his carotid artery. Steve fists his hand in Bucky’s undershirt but doesn’t push him off. Doesn’t push him away. Just grips him tight—holds him. 

Steve’s mouth has gotten them both in trouble so many times before. It doesn’t feel like trouble, though, when Bucky leans in, Steve’s labored breath hot on his face, and presses their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else feeling EFFERVESCENT? One more chapter to go!


	8. Chapter 8

Steve goes perfectly still. For half a heated second Bucky thinks maybe it’s just nerves, Steve’s not sure what to do, so he moves in closer and kisses him harder—

The fist knotted in Bucky’s shirt drives hard into his chest, pushing him backward. Bucky blinks his eyes open and finds Steve staring him down, pale-faced and flat-mouthed.

“What are you doing?” Steve rasps.

Maybe it’s wrong of Bucky to push, but Steve hasn’t let go of his shirt. He hasn’t forced Bucky out of his space; they’re still inches apart, Steve’s back to the wall mere feet from the front door. He’s not cornered, though. If he wanted free it would be easy. So Bucky plants a hand on the wall by Steve’s head and, with his other hand, cups his face to hold him steady.

“Fighting for it,” he says.

This time, when Bucky moves toward him, something bright flashes in Steve’s eyes. Their lips connect off-center. Steve hauls in a breath—pulls it right out of Bucky lungs—and then he’s kissing back. 

A shock like electricity trips down Bucky’s spine. Steve’s hands grab at Bucky’s shoulders, dragging him closer, while their mouths move together. Bucky has his answer now: Steve doesn’t kiss kindly; he always has something to prove, even here. Bucky’s nose smarts but he does his best to keep up, pressing Steve into the wallpaper, giving him whatever he asks for—his open mouth, his tongue, his heart if Steve wants it. It’s his.

“Bucky,” Steve says, breaking off to breathe uninterrupted. “Bucky, I…”

Bucky showers kisses over him in the meantime. His cheeks, his jaw, the spot below his ear that’s sensitive. “I mean it,” he says into Steve’s skin. “I mean it, you gotta know.”

“You…”

Bucky pulls back enough to look him in the eye. “Tell me to stop, Steve, and I will.”

Steve stares back at him, some well-deep conflict visible in his eyes. The space between their bodies burns hotter than any summer day. Whatever Steve is thinking, he’s thinking hard—too hard maybe, but that’s Steve for you. Everything is a situation. His hands flutter toward Bucky’s face, then settle on his neck.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, weak-voiced.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—it’s… Bucky.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“I could give you fifty.”

“Okay. Go ahead. I’ll count.”

The _thunk_ when Steve’s skull hits the wall almost echoes. He rolls his head back and forth, eyes shut, while his thumbs press hard to the pulse points on either side of Bucky’s neck. It’d be the right thing for Bucky to let go of him, back away—let him leave. He can’t do it, though. Not with the peppery taste of Steve’s mouth still on his tongue. Not when he’s so close to tasting the rest of him, if Steve would only open his eyes.

He does, slowly. “You’re killing me, Buck. You’re murder.”

“Tell me to stop—”

“Don’t you goddamn dare.”

It’s Steve that surges forward this time. Only the moment they collide, he softens, his mouth open and careful on Bucky’s. Like maybe he’s remembered the big bruise across Bucky’s face, or something else. They kiss, and kiss, and it’s the third time but this one feels like the first somehow—or like maybe how the first one ought to have been, if they were different people. 

A quiet, pained noise rolls out of Steve’s throat and reverberates in Bucky’s mouth. When Bucky pulls away, Steve just buries his face in Bucky’s neck.

He’s convinced him of _something,_ but not all of it.

“Steve?” he asks, brushing his fingers through Steve’s hair.

“Yeah—yeah,” Steve breathes. “Okay, come on, bathroom again, we’ll clean up and then we’ll—when will your family be home?”

“I don’t know. An hour or two.”

“Shit, come on, let’s go.”

“Steve.” He tries to stop Steve plowing him backward, but it’s no use; Steve who’s put his mind to something is impossible to stop, least of all when Bucky would hate for Steve to quit touching him. “What are you—”

“Don’t you wanna fuck me?”

“You’re—do I—”

“Bucky, Buck, please.” They’re in the bathroom now, Steve corralling them toward the tub. “God, you got no idea—no idea how bad I… You gotta, please, I want you so bad.”

“You do?”

“Yes. God, _yes.”_

They strip fast enough it makes Bucky dizzy, but there’s no time to take care. Maybe—there might be a next time. He’s hopeful that one day he’ll be able to make Steve naked thread by thread, but for now everything’s in a pile and Steve is climbing under the showerhead before the water has a chance to warm. He’s half-covered in soap lather by the time Bucky makes it in after him and draws the curtain closed.

The water slowly heats, a degree at a time. Bucky’s temperature rises faster with Steve all wet in front of him, though he’s hardly paying attention, scrubbing the bar of soap over his skin.

“Get clean,” Steve tells him. He pushes the soap into Bucky’s hand.

Bucky takes it, but he’s stuck watching Steve run hands over himself. It’s not sexual, or even particularly sensual; he’s a man on a mission even when his fingers wrap around his cock, wash between his legs. The water streams down his chest, soap bubbles following it along. Bucky licks his lips, thinking about all of it. The humidity makes his nose start bleeding again—or maybe his brain’s just broken. 

“Come on,” Steve says, annoyed this time. He steps into Bucky’s space and tears the soap back, smacks it to Bucky’s chest and starts rubbing. “Faster you wash, faster we can—”

He breaks off with a gasp when Bucky grabs him and pulls him close. Their bodies press together in a messy line, soap-slick. Steve’s feet almost slip out from under him, but Bucky holds him tight and upright. He can feel Steve against his thigh, still soft but present—so very real. The water is too hot now; they ought to turn the tap down. 

They kiss again instead, blood and all. Steve tries to soap him up in the meantime but he isn’t fooling anyone; his hands are doing more exploring than lathering. Bucky maps him out right back. The crooked spine and his square hips and the heft of his ass. He’s hard in no time at all, caught against Steve’s stomach. Steve is following after at his own pace, and his mouth is so open. Bucky can’t help remembering what it felt like to put something other than his tongue inside it. Where else he’s put his dick and what else he’d like to put there. His hands trail down Steve’s backside, two fingers dipping into the middle to feel him.

“Oh,” Steve says, like it’s a surprise, and his hips flinch forward right into Bucky’s. But then he sighs, pressing his lips to Bucky’s shoulder and his hips back into his touch. The tip of Bucky’s finger slips inside him, and close as they are Bucky feels the way it makes Steve’s stomach go tense. “That’s—you don’t have to—”

“You like it?”

Steve shifts back, and Bucky moves with him, careful not to press too deep when he doesn’t have any jelly on his fingers like Steve uses. Steve’s eyes on him are wide and curious—a little wondering.

“We’re clean,” he breathes. “Come on, out, we’re clean.”

The shower’s over as soon as it began. They trip naked down the hall together, dripping water on the floor that Bucky hopes will dry on its own. It’s an awkward dance but they make it to Bucky’s square bedroom. The door shuts. The mattress protests faintly when Steve climbs onto it, and Bucky has to take a moment just to watch Steve spread himself out on top of his childhood bed. This frame has held his weight a hundred times, but never quite like this. It’s broad damn daylight outside.

Steve’s face pinches suddenly. “Bucky, do you have any—”

Before he’s finished his sentence, Bucky is in his dresser drawers, pulling out a rubber and the little tin of petroleum jelly he’d stashed in his Sunday socks. He holds them both out. “Haven’t used the jelly yet but it’s the same kind you have,” he says.

He’d bought it—well, not on a whim. He just hadn’t worked up the nerve to use it on himself yet. Maybe he won’t have to.

The room’s small enough that Steve can grab him by the wrist, drag him closer. Bucky falls into the space beside him on the bed easy as anything. The bed’s too small, hasn’t fit Bucky’s legs properly for years, but it will do. Bucky thinks he can feel Steve smiling into their next kiss.

“Give me that,” Steve murmurs, groping for Bucky’s hand, “just take me a minute.”

“I wanna do it.”

“You…?”

“I want to get you ready. Last time, remember I said I wanted to use my mouth on you?”

“Yes,” Steve breathes.

“I’ll make you feel so good, Steve.” He doesn’t know if it’s true, if it feels the same for a man as it does for a woman, but maybe it does. “Let me?”

A faint shudder ripples through Steve. His mouth is open and hesitant, but he nods. He nods again, starts to turn over, but Bucky holds him steady by the hip.

“No, just lie back for me.”

“It’s easier if—”

“I say I give a damn about easier?”

“You’re…” Steve’s cheeks flood with color, sudden and bright. His eyelids close like he’s fighting something off behind them. “Jesus, Buck. You’re something else.”

“What am I?”

“I got no damn idea. Never have. Okay.”

He lies down against Bucky’s single pillow, where the sunlight falls across it and makes his face look gilded. His damp hair darkens the fabric. Bucky shifts down the bed, his hands on Steve’s calves, reassuring more than coaxing. A subtle tremor is thrumming through Steve’s body. Bucky would think he was cold if the air in the room wasn’t warm as outside. It’s a little strange; Steve had been so confident in their previous encounters, but now he seems downright nervous.

“You never told me,” Bucky says, his hand gliding up to Steve’s knee, “if anybody’s ever done this to you.”

“Mm. No.”

“No you didn’t, or no nobody has?”

“You’ll be the first, Buck,” Steve says, “if you ever get to it.”

Bucky snorts and pinches his thigh. “Workin on it, aren’t I? Spread your legs for me, there you go.”

Steve splays them wide, his hips shifting. The flush in his cheeks is spreading rapidly, with Bucky’s eyes all over him. His cock, hard now, rests against his stomach. Bucky reaches for him there first, just to take him in hand and feel him again. Steve gasps, then bites his lip hard to keep his mouth shut. Bucky runs his thumb along the underside of Steve’s cock. Right now he’s hardly touching to please him—just exploring—but Steve seems to like it anyway. When Bucky leans forward to inhale the musky smell of him, one of Steve’s hands fists in the worn quilt.

“Are you gonna—” Steve starts, just as Bucky opens his mouth to take him in. _“Oh.”_

He tastes like soap mostly, and the faint salty taste of skin lingers underneath. He’s strange in Bucky’s mouth, a new sensation but a welcome one. He dips his head lower, bringing Steve further into his mouth, and tries to remember what Steve had done to make him feel so good. He sucks, licks, all inexpertly but Steve seems pleased about it if the way he’s whining in the back of his throat means anything. Maybe someday Steve can teach him how to do this properly, but he’d just wanted to try it before moving on to something he knows he’s good at.

Pale gold hair makes a trail from Steve’s cock down, a nest around his balls, and further between his legs. Bucky noses along the path, likes the feel of the hair and the weight of Steve’s balls when he lifts them aside, but it’s not till Steve hooks a hand behind his knee and draws it up that Bucky’s able to get where he wants. He just looks for a moment, wondering how in the hell Steve ever fits anything inside a hole that looks so small. Wonders how many anythings he’s fit in there. His own cock aches between his legs.

Steve’s neck is craned to watch him, so Bucky sees it when his mouth falls open at the first touch of Bucky’s tongue. He’s cautious at first, short and gentle, just tasting salt and musk and Steve. It’s different from licking a girl, the area more defined, but he pulls just as loud a moan out of Steve when he presses his tongue flat to his entrance and sucks.

“Mm, that’s—oh God, Buck, you’re—” 

But he just breaks off again when Bucky starts lapping at him in earnest. It’s not long before Steve starts to relax under his mouth, loosening enough that Bucky can push his tongue right inside him. Steve shudders and cries out, muffled by the elbow he’s covered his face with. He must like this; Bucky catches a thumb on his rim to pull him wider, lick in deeper.

He could go for hours, bring Steve off just like this maybe, work him till his jaw ached for days. God, he wants to—right now, he wants that. But it’s the middle of the afternoon, and it might feel like the world stops when Steve puts his hand in Bucky’s hair and drags him even closer, but the clock’s still ticking.

“Gimme the jelly,” Bucky says, then nips at the crease of Steve’s thigh. Steve flinches, a startled snort of laughter bursting out. “You finger yourself with it, right? To get yourself wet?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He fumbles for the tin where Bucky had left it near the pillow. “Yeah, just—get some on your fingers, more than you think. You can use two, I can take it.”

Steve ought to know his body better than anyone by now, so Bucky elects to trust him. He dips two fingers into the tin to coat them, then presses them to Steve’s hole where he’s already damp with Bucky’s spit. Light pressure, and Steve’s body lets him in like it wants nothing else. Steve inhales sharp, then sighs it back out and shifts toward Bucky’s touch. He feels smooth inside—still tight as hell, like if Bucky left his fingers here long enough they might go numb—and hot, too.

“If you,” Steve starts, and swallows hard. “Go like this.”

Steve holds up two fingers and bends them in toward his palm—and that much is familiar. Men and women aren’t so different, Bucky thinks, as he curls his fingers and watches the way it makes Steve’s face fold together. There’s something inside him, Bucky doesn’t know what but he can feel it, that must be making Steve feel damn good. It’s not a show; Steve’s not that good an actor.

Bucky kisses his thigh, wet, and says, “You’ll have to do this to me sometime.”

_“Fuck.”_ Steve’s dick twitches so hard he grabs it out of reflex, holding none-too-gently. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“What?”

“You’re…” Steve props himself up on an elbow, watching Bucky’s fingers slide in and out of him before his eyes find Bucky’s face. “That’s a pretty queer thing to say.”

“I wanna know what it feels like.”

Steve chews his lip, staring at Bucky like he doesn’t know where the hell he came from. When they were little Bucky used to make up stories about dropping onto Earth from outer space; maybe Steve’s wondering if they weren’t stories. Surely that’s not any easier to believe than the idea that Bucky really wants this—wants him.

“Put your cock in me already,” Steve says. The foil packet of the rubber hits Bucky in the chin.

“You want it?”

“Yeah, I want it, c’mon.”

“Beg me for it.”

And Steve _laughs,_ bright and loud. “Sorry, Buck, I’m on my own time. Not gonna happen.”

“Really?” Bucky asks, crawling over him to get close to his lips again. They’re both smiling like cartoon characters. “Not even if I wanted you to?”

Steve’s ankles hook behind Bucky’s knees; it’s not a trap but it may as well be, and Bucky has no plans to escape. “Maybe,” Steve says, “but if it’s all the same to you, I don’t really wanna.”

“What do you want?”

It’s a genuine question, and Steve seems to hear that in his voice. His brow pulls together. Their faces are close, but Bucky can still see his eyes, how thoughtful they look. Steve cups his cheek, his thumb pressed to the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“I just—I just want you to fuck me, and kiss me while you do it.”

“Simple,” Bucky murmurs, but he’s not stupid—he knows it’s more than that. That all this, the care he’s taking, means something to Steve even if he won’t come out and say it.

They adjust, resettle, Steve spread out and waiting for him with his face so open and trusting. It damn near cleaves Bucky’s heart in two just looking at him. He’s thought it before, a hundred times at least, but he thinks it again: _I’d do anything for him._ It’s not a new feeling, but it sinks in harder this time, dragging his heart down into the tide of Steve Rogers. Christ, he’s gone. He’s been gone for so long it’s the eighth wonder of the world that neither of them noticed.

He holds Steve’s gaze while he pushes into him. Slow enough that he can watch the flickers in Steve’s eyes, something lighting up inside him till it catches fire and he sighs out loud. Bucky feels it too, sparking at the place where Steve’s body grips him and radiating outward. He leans in to catch Steve’s mouth, because he said he would.

They keep kissing even as Bucky starts to move. Somehow Steve’s lips on his feel more intimate than being inside him—or maybe it’s the same; Bucky’s processing centers are on the fritz. He fucks Steve slow and earnest, keeps his mouth on Steve’s skin even when Steve’s head drops back hard into the pillow.

“Bucky,” Steve pants.

“This what you want, sweetheart?”

“It’s good, it’s good—you can be rougher, I wasn’t pretending, I like it.”

Bucky sets his teeth to Steve’s collarbone, just lightly. “You want it harder?”

_“Yes,_ please, God you feel good.”

His hips snap forward, giving Steve more, and Steve’s body yields for him so easily. He cries out, and he’s _loud;_ Bucky’s damn glad the walls of this building are thick. It’s no performance—Steve’s too inelegant about it this time for it to be anything but honest. He writhes and squeaks and sighs, digging his nails into Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky drives into him again and again. The whole world just outside the door, and nothing else matters but the way Steve pulls him in for a kiss with too much teeth.

For a long moment Bucky thinks the feeling welling up inside him is just overwrought emotion, his heart squeezed too tight. Then the pressure snaps—his orgasm hits. A groan stumbles out of his mouth right into Steve’s. Steve must feel him, must know what’s happening, because his hands are on Bucky’s face and his hole is clenching so tight it nearly hurts.

The feeling fuzzes out eventually. Bucky melts sideways, aiming for the space beside Steve and landing half on top of him. His brain sloshes around inside his head. They’re still slotted together, and Steve makes no move to separate them. If anything he’s still fluttering around Bucky’s dick like he wishes he hadn’t stopped. “Here,” Bucky mumbles, reaching down, “come on, I wanna see you again.”

Steve laughs at him and pets his hair. “I’ve got it, Buck.”

“No, no, I wanna help. You can—you can put it in me, I…”

Steve twists to face him on the sweat-damp sheets, their bodies unlocking. He’s frowning, even as he runs a hand through Bucky’s hair. “You’d really let me?” he asks.

“Of course.”

Steve studies his face like he’s finally decoded something. “Have I ever told you,” he says, “that you’re so gorgeous you make me wanna scream sometimes?”

Bucky smiles, and Steve catches it with a thumb. “Don’t think you have, no.”

“Well, it’s true. Lie back for me.” When Bucky flops over, Steve climbs on top of him, straddling his chest. “Just open your—yeah, like that, Buck, you’re perfect.”

It’s not how he’d meant but he doesn’t mind when Steve slips his dick into his mouth. At this angle it’s easy; Steve cradles his head and thrusts shallowly and looks down at Bucky like he shaped the moon by hand before climbing into the sky to hang it. When he comes, it’s almost gentle. A deep sigh, and then he pours himself right onto Bucky’s tongue and down his throat. His hands stroke Bucky’s cheeks all the way through it, murmuring praises. Swallowing’s easy.

It’d be even easier to let Steve curl up against his chest and stay there all afternoon. For a moment he does, and they catch their breath together, Bucky tonguing the backs of his teeth where Steve’s taste lingers. Nerve ending by nerve ending, he regains feeling in the rest of his body.

Steve’s the first to move. He stretches, spine crackling, then rolls over Bucky and off the bed before Bucky thinks to grab him to make him stay. His legs are a little wobbly, but he’s upright. Bucky hadn’t noticed till now how red his lips had gotten.

“Where are you going?” Bucky pats the bed dolefully. “Come back.”

Steve gestures to the afternoon through the window. “We have to shake a leg, pal.”

“God, do we have to?”

One of Steve’s flat eyebrows raises. “Yeah, Buck. We have to.”

So they both get up and find their clothes on the bathroom floor. Everything’s a little rumpled, and Bucky opts for a fresh shirt rather than his sorry blood-stained one, but they look alright. Steve uses a towel to mop up the floor where they’d dripped all over it in their haste. He tells Bucky he’ll probably want to wash his sheets himself, instead of letting his mother do it.

“Smart,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, well. It’s been said I know a thing or two.”

Bucky’s family could be home any minute. He knows that—knows any one of them could walk right through the door. Even so, when Steve looks at him with that patented heart-eating smirk, Bucky can’t help himself. His feet carry him forward. He gets his hands on Steve’s waist and presses him into the doorframe.

“Hey,” he says, close to Steve’s face, nose in his hairline.

Steve snorts, and the air brushes across Bucky’s skin. “Hey yourself, mister.”

“That was good earlier. Great.”

“Yeah?”

“Like you don’t know.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and Bucky’s kisses him for the insolence. A little surprised noise bubbles in Steve’s chest. His hands grip Bucky’s elbows, at first like it’s a reflex but then just to hold on when Bucky deepens the kiss. It takes some coaxing, but Steve lets his mouth fall open and he kisses back. He’s so good with his tongue, it’s newsworthy.

“Listen,” Bucky says, “are you busy tonight? I wanna come see you.”

“Am I busy?” Steve breathes, distracted.

“Do you gotta work, or can I come to your place?”

“Oh—I’m—I wasn’t planning to…”

“Good.”

Steve kisses him again and it makes him stupider, he thinks, his brain just pouring out of his ears because Steve’s gone and melted it. They really don’t have any time left, but he craves every second. Maybe if they hurried—he knows they can’t but he wants it—

“So can I?” he asks again.

“Yeah, guess so, Buck. We could go catch a movie or—”

“Have you ever slipped it to a man before?” Bucky says. “You don’t always take it, do you? I meant it earlier, I want you to do it to me. Can I come by and we can try that, God I want it, I’ll bet you’re good at it too.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, a light warning.

“You are, you’re good at everything. Do they just spread open for you? Christ, I can just imagine it. Tell me about them and I can be better, Steve, I swear—”

“Jesus.” Steve yanks at his elbows and slides free of Bucky’s hold. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about—” Bucky frowns. Steve’s five feet down the hall already. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

“What did you… Hell. How do I keep letting you—” Steve drags a heavy hand down his face, leaving red marks across his face. “I gotta get out of here, Bucky.”      

All the air seems to follow Steve out of the room. The front door swings, threatening to slam—but Bucky catches it on the edges of his fingers. The wood digs in, smarting, but he doesn’t care. The stairs clunk as Steve tumbles down them, and Bucky follows after hot on his heels.

“Stop,” Bucky calls after him, forceful. “Stop, Steve, dammit—quit running!”

Out on the street, Steve whirls on him, his eyes hot with anger. “What do you want?”

“For you to just talk to me for _once.”_

“I do talk to you. I talk to you all the damn time, Bucky.”

“Not when you’re like this.” Bucky gestures at him roughly. “When you’ve—when you’ve decided you’re right about something and won’t even listen to what I have to say.”

“And what is it you think I think I’m right about?”

The street’s too busy. All kinds of people are headed back to work from their lunch hour—Bucky’s neighbors, people he knows. They’re starting to stare. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before, Bucky and his strange little friend Steve, but it _is._ He can’t say what he means out here in the daylight with pedestrians brushing their shoulders.

“Dammit, will you just come back inside.”

“No.”

“Steve, I can’t—”

Then Steve’s walking away, and Bucky has no choice but to follow him. “Where are you even going?”

“I don’t know. Away from here.”

“You know, you’re being a real jerk.”

“Lay off, Barnes.”

“God, just—” It isn’t kind, but he needs Steve to listen to him. He grabs him by the arm and drags him into the nearest alleyway, Steve screaming bloody murder at him the whole time. It’s a good thing all of Bucky’s neighbors are assholes; no one comes to Steve’s aide.

Bucky pins him by the shoulders to the brick wall. “Now will you _listen_ to me.”

“I ought to spit on you.”

“Well, you know I swallow, so.”

“Jesus _Christ.”_

Despite himself, Steve croaks a wheezy laughs. Bucky laughs too. Maybe they’re both feeling a little delirious. The laundry hanging from window to window overhead snaps and shivers in the breeze. Bucky’s nerves feel about as stable, but he pulled Steve down here; it’s now or never to say his piece.

“Why did you get so bothered by what I was saying earlier?” he asks.

Steve sighs and rolls his shoulders under Bucky’s hands. “You’re pinching me.”

Bucky drops his hands, letting him go. “I’m sorry. Just please, don’t run off again.”

“I don’t know, Buck. Just… what are we doing? What do you want from me exactly?”

“What do you mean, what do I want from you?”

“Look, we can keep sleeping together if you want. Obviously you can see by now that I want it too. But I’m not gonna—I can’t give up my job, and…”

“Steve.”

“And you don’t have to say all that other stuff, it’s okay, I’ll still fuck you even if you don’t—even if I’m the only one who—”

_“Steve._ I’m sorry, remind me again when I asked you to give up your job.”

Steve blinks back at him, a confused fold in his brow. Bucky never moved out of his space; they’re still just a foot apart, close enough to cause trouble if anyone came strolling down this alley. But it’s narrow and dark and doesn’t lead anywhere.

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” Bucky says. “This is what I mean. You keep making assumptions about me instead of just asking me.”

“You don’t want me to give it up?”

“No. No, it’s—” Bucky licks his lips, eyes darting away and then back.

“Okay, Buck, consider this me asking. What is it?”

“I kind of like it. Thinking about you with other people. It gets me hot.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes.  

“Is that okay?”

“Well, it’s better than the alternative.”

Bucky smiles and reaches for him. He cups Steve’s cheek, probably not to kiss him but it’s a possibility—only Steve flinches away from his touch.

“What?” Bucky tries to read his face, but it’s all strange. “Hey. What did you mean a minute ago, about me not having to say all that stuff? What stuff?”

“Just—you don’t have to be sweet with me, Bucky. I’m not like one of your girls, you don’t have to flirt with me to get me to put out. Just ask.”

“What if I like flirting with you?”

Steve sighs, put-upon, and tries to squirm away from the wall. But Bucky plants his hands on either side of his head and makes him stay.

“Steve,” he says, “do you still not believe me? After all that?”

It’s funny sometimes, how selective Steve’s confidence is. He can walk into an argument guns blazing, sketch out the world in an afternoon—but other things, he just crumples like wet paper. He does that now: drops his head, mashes his mouth into a line. His inhale shakes.

“Believe what, exactly?” he quietly asks.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and he wants to turn Steve’s chin up but maybe it’s best to let him hide for now. “Would you rather go see a movie tonight? We can do that. I’ll get dressed up for you and take you out. Maybe if I’m lucky you’ll take me home with you, but if not, that’s okay too. I just—do you get it? It’s just like how you said. I like the sex but I just want to be around you, Steve, however you’ll let me. I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

“Feelings,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Big ones.”

Steve looks up at him then, and his eyes are wide and hopeful. “You really mean it.”

“I got no reason in the world to lie to you.”

“God.” Steve’s hands fly to his face, holding him. “I never thought—I never even _hoped…”_

Bucky lays his palm over Steve’s. “What is it?”

“I feel the same. About you. I have for a long, long time.”

It’s like the sky opens up and swallows him whole, sending him straight to heaven. He thinks maybe he figured that out already, deep down, but it’s just so nice to hear direct from Steve’s mouth. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“And what would you have said, before all this?” Steve’s smile is a little bittersweet. “Would you have believed me?”

And for that, Bucky doesn’t have any answer. But maybe it doesn’t matter. “I believe you now.”

“Good.”

“Am I the best dick you ever had?”

_“Bucky,_ good God.” Steve thumps him in the shoulder.

“I’m gonna make you say yes to that one of these days. Can I kiss you now?”

The alley’s deserted; no one can see them from the street. Steve nods, and when their lips meet, they’re stretched tight in smiles.

 

Later, Steve’s still talking about that actor in the supporting role of the picture they’d seen as they walk up to his building. Bucky has an arm slung around his shoulder, happy to listen to him chatter. It’s when Steve fishes the key out of his pocket that it occurs to him.

“Hey,” he says as Steve unlocks the door and lets them inside. “Have I earned my key back yet?”

“Oh,” Steve says. “I guess so. Only…”

“What?”

Steve draws closer to him, laying his palm over Bucky’s tie. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day.”

“I say a lot of things, you’ll have to remind me which one.”

“About moving in together. You and me.”

“Oh? And what have you been thinking?”

“That it’s gonna require some discussion, but I want to.”

Bucky’s heart does a somersault. Living with Steve—waking up to him every day, to all his moods both sour and sweet—it sounds damn near perfect. “Well, let’s talk. I’m all ears.”

“Later,” Steve says, low and throaty. He strokes his fingers down Bucky’s tie, then grabs hold of it. “I believe you asked me if there was something we could do tonight.”

A nervous thrill shivers down Bucky’s spine and settles in his gut. “Yes. Yes, Steve, _God_ yes.”

“Uh huh. You’re gonna say that a couple more times before I’m done with you.”

And then Steve pushes him backward to his bedroom, where all of this began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll leave you with a little outro music: [You Go to My Head - Billie Holiday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7xQd3yt590)


End file.
